Star Trek Deep Space Nine: Band of Redshirts
by the Starfleet Kid
Summary: The Dominion War wasn't just fought in space. Starfleet Marines, or redshirts, bled and died on a hundred worlds. What the Federation brought together as a company, the War united as a family. This is the story of one such company.
1. The First Drop

"All right people," the Lieutenant shouted over the sounds of our good-natured, anxious chatter. "This is basic landborne phaser training, so--- hey! You, in the back! Name!"

One of the shuttlecraft pilots, guy I knew named Ramirez, stepped forward. "Ensign Joaquin Ramirez, sir."

"Ramirez. C'mere a minute."

The ranks parted down the middle in a perfect aisle, connecting Ramirez to the Lieutenant. He made his way forward, tenuous. I knew I would've been the same. Provided I'd been able to move. Ramirez had just been assigned here due to his role as a shuttle pilot. He wasn't like most of us-- the quiet ones. You could tell the starboys from the redshirts down in the Training Hangar. Starboys liked to sit around, natter on about gossip and holodeck adventures they'd had. Redshirts, we knew better. There was no such thing as adventure for us. I'd like to say something noble like "we lived it every day", but really, we just knew better.

Ramirez came to the front, to where the Lieutenant was holding one of the standard phasers. "Sir," Ramirez said, his tone intended to draw out a mercy that didn't exist in the Lieutenant.

"Stand over there, Ensign." Upon the small stage stood a brick of what appeared to be solid duranium, next to which Ramirez was directed to stand. "Thank you. Now, then. Some of you are familiar with the operations of a phaser in shipborne operations. You can shoot just about anything with a phaser inside of a starship--- the fire-suppression systems will keep things from burning, and if that doesn't work, maybe you'll be lucky enough to be caught with the beam square on instead. After all, there isn't a lot of room in a starship. Lines of fire are only important in terms of corridor entry and egress. And it's more important to find somewhere to hide.

"Not so planetside. Those of you starboys, like Ensign Ramirez over here, who think it's all guts and glory, can go back to your holodecks. You've been sent down here in order to attain in part your Away Team Qualifications Ribbon. And if you can't cut it in here, as sure as Vulcan's hot in July, you will not cut it planetside anywhere else."

This was all three years before we'd make our names. No one I knew at the time --not even Ramirez-- will matter later. I'm only relating this because it's the day I knew for sure I never wanted anything else. I mean, Starfleet's a big place. You can get lost on some scientific mission out on the far side of the Quadrant, or you can just fade away into the backdrop of one bridge or another, making war or making peace or making love to some cutie on some random starbase. Now that I think about it, I don't even remember what number this starbase was-- I can only tell you that it sure wasn't Starbase 69. I was hurting for some action, and there were some cute starbunnies in that room.

But back to the Lieutenant for a moment. "You redshirts will be getting more of the same later on, so for the most part, anything I tell you here, you'll have to unlearn once you get your rifles. For now we will stick to the Mark I Starfleet standard-issue phaser. Note that this is different from the smaller officers' sidearms you will see your commanding officers wearing. Just Mark I.

"This particular phaser is capable of a number of settings. For example, the lowest setting will barely light wood. You'll need that if you're lost in the woods--- and judging by the look of some of you, it won't matter anyway."

At this, the Lieutenant pointed the phaser at Ramirez and fired, point-blank. To be fair, he aimed for Ramirez's hand. The beam struck Ramirez right between the third and fourth fingers, making him jump back. The Lieutenant grabbed his wrist and turned the wounded hand towards the crowd. "As you can see, it's good for little more than disabling your enemy's hand. Which is probably important, if you're going up against computer operators. But your adversaries will be far less susceptible to flesh wounds-- and what's more, they won't notice.

"Which is where the stun setting comes in." The Lieutenant tapped a button on the back of the phaser and then another, firing a bolt this time at Ramirez's right shoulder. Ramirez took it full on, jolted into a half-spin, and fell to one knee. "How you feeling, Ensign?"

"I can't feel my side!"

"That's right. This is why you need to aim carefully. You'll notice from his snivelling that Ensign Ramirez can still use his left arm. If you're lucky, your attackers won't be southpaws. But don't count on it. If you do use the stun setting, aim dead centre of the chest." As if his display hadn't been convincing enough, the Lieutenant aimed square in the rib cage on himself with his phaser's barrel. "Now, then. Let's move onto heavy stun."

"NO!" Ramirez screamed, crawling away. By this point --if I didn't make it clear-- the Lieutenant had everyone's attention. I'm sure someone was on the commlink to the Federation President, but nobody would've cared. We were Starfleet. We knew the risks--- or rather, we should've.

"Very well, Ensign. Now, you will notice that we refer to it now as 'heavy stun' rather than 'kill'. Now, some of you might be under the impression that it's just the Federation being nice and catering to your sensibilities--- that you don't want to actually have to kill someone else. And that's fine. But we've seen what's coming out of the Cardassian Union and Romulan Star Empire these days. We go up against those boys, and we're going to have to hope that 'kill' is still the word we have in mind. Heaven knows the Borg can shrug it off like you weren't even there."

At this, the Lieutenant aimed his phaser at the block of duranium and fired. The metal was scorched, but there wasn't any sign of it having had any penetrative effect.

"Note that heavy stun will not penetrate metal. This is why it's used on starships. It's powerful enough to bring down even a drunken Vulcan. But you can set it to the 'maximum' setting. And this will cause whatever organic tissue you strike with it to vaporize-- we still don't know exactly why that happens, but rest assured, you will destroy whatever you target. Of course, you only get one shot.

"The power cell in your average phaser will burn itself out in short order if you do fire on maximum. Shipside, this wouldn't be a problem normally. But on a planet, you may need to give your power cell time to charge itself. Burn it out, and your phaser is little more than a mechanical brick. Leave it on the wrong planet, and you could affect an entire civilization. We still deal in the Prime Directive in our line of work, so let's keep that in mind as well."

At this, the Lieutenant threw up the setting to maximum and fired a bright red beam straight through the duranium block in a matter of seconds, like it wasn't even there. As if he knew the precise depth, the beam discontinued in time to avoid putting a hole in the bulkhead.

"Don't think that a phaser makes you God. You have to be conservative, careful and consistent. You don't fire through corners, you fire around them. You don't use any more power than you have to. It's against Federation regulations --regulations that you will have to know-- to simply employ a phaser because you feel like it. You've got to be aware of your situation, at all times. Starfleet is giving you the power to wound, even to kill. You have to respect that power. Because one wrong move, and it will destroy you.

"Carrying a phaser not only gives you power, it gives you responsibility. Being armed makes you the target. You'll always be a target if you're in that uniform--- but carrying a weapon makes you that much more certain to die. This is why Starfleet weapons teams work together.

"You point that phaser, you'd better be ready to use it-- that means system clean, safety off, setting checked. You can't be afraid. Your enemy will use that fear against you. It takes a fraction of a second for whatever weapon he has to fire, and to strike you dead. And you have to strike that fraction of a second sooner.

"Remember that order. I will drill you on this until you get it. Trace, stun, kill, max. Trace, stun, kill, max. Conserve power, use good cover, work together. Otherwise I can train you until the rapture and you'll still be dead at first shot. Any questions?"

* * *

We were in that room for three weeks, twelve hours a day. What I learned in there lasted me through the Dominion War. Not just phaser tactics--- how to move, how to hide, how to run, how to fire. Redshirts don't just learn to march to the beat of a different drum. They have to learn to walk a whole other way. Otherwise there might not be enough of them left to send home.

Got my stripes after we lost Sergeant T'lani on AR-543. Murderous fire from Jemmy, and those damned spook mines they use --you may know 'em by another name, but our company took to calling them spook mines-- popped up all around us while we were on warp speed down one damned tunnel or another. T'lani wasn't content to just wait for the spook mine to reappear. We didn't have that kind of time. Jemmy could be all around us, those damned shrouds of theirs. T'lani stepped forward, left me in charge since I was section second. Not the way I wanted to get my stripes, but you know what they say about the good of the many. She took it on in single combat, fired four good shots into it before it detonated. Real cold logician, that one, but hot like her home planet.

I picked up a lot of lingo along the way. We had to stop saying "that girl's easy like Risa on Tuesday" after those madmen tried to shut the whole planet down. You wanna do that, you need redshirts, man. Or Jemmy. I'm still smarting over the way we lost Betazed. They thought they could see Jemmy coming. They didn't know what hit them. Even though they went hardcore partisan, communicating and co-ordinating by telepathy alone, it still took them almost until after the armistice to get Jemmy out of there. If they hadn't run out of the white, we might never have been safe on that planet.

Jemmy's like that. He squats in the bush on some planet somewhere out of touch from everyone else and his bioengineered brain calms him down. Me or you --well, unless you're a Vulcan-- we'd be freaking out, smacking our commbadges and praying to whoever's left out there to pray to, asking for salvation and redemption and a goddamned runabout even. Those things are death traps with warp engines, I'm told.

Jemmy doesn't care. You tell him to die and he does it with a smile on his face. If Jemmy even smiles. I don't think he can. After a while, their bony faces all look the same. And don't think I didn't get to see him up close. Just on account of us fighting and shooting at each other across hundreds of kilometres doesn't mean we didn't get real cozy. But that was why infantry tactics were so important to learn.

That was actually the segment of my training that followed basic phaser. They trained us in close-combat, in fighting styles ranging from Vulcan to Klingon to Tellarite to Cardassian. They had to-- we had among our squad species from across the Federation. Caitians, Deltans, Andorians, Denobulans, but mostly Vulcans and humans. You could always tell the Vulcans from the humans just by looking at them, of course, and not because of the ears. Smarmy bastards. I've never liked Vulcans-- all but two, and T'lanis was one of them. I smell green blood or see blue skin or hear hoof-fall and right away, my teeth are on edge. I can't help it if I'm a little xenophobic. I know, Federation, we're all supposed to be pals, especially when you think of what Jemmy was coming to do with us, you'd think, for sure they all get along! But no. We had us some fierce lay-outs. Close combat stopped being a drill and started being a way of life.

This suited the instructors just fine. The redshirt boss at that starbase was a Captain Pirgo, though we just called him the Pig. I mean, Tellarites kind of look the point, though I imagine if a pig started walking around on his hind legs, he'd be a lot more like us and a lot less hell-bent for breaking cadets in two.

One time, there was this Benzite-- and you know how they have that breathing apparatus? Pig hounded him until he washed out because he thought Benzites had no place in combat. Never mind that the juice they have in those things is self-replicating. Way he talked, you'd think Benzite breathers had the same cell as your average phaser: runs out when you need it most.

I got through that. Then they put us through Vulcan. Man, it was so hot I thought I had gone to hell. I use that one a lot, stole it from the Lieutenant back in basic, so if I say 'such and such a zone was hotter than Vulcan', trust me, I know of what I speak. All I could do for the better part of our twelve weeks there was sweat my ass off. But we had calisthenics four times a day. All the instructors were Vulcans. You should've seen the Andorians. They were just about ready to strangle the first pink-skin pointy-ears they came across with their feelers.

It was hideous. Sand in everything --especially the phasers. We had a couple of biomechanically-handed redshirts by the end of that. See, if you get a chunk of silicon down the wrong part of the phaser, the whole coolant array goes to pot, and you're out of luck. Might as well hug it and take the hit to the body instead. It's the only way out.

We all thought about it, an accidental shot to the boot or to the arm, somewhere out of the way. The Vulcans were a step up on us: we couldn't use anything but trace setting. They fitted our commbadges with a trace-reader, so if we took a hit, we couldn't fake a real wound. The only way out was a detonating phaser. And nobody wanted a ticket out at the expense of a whole arm.

That was about the time--- no. No, it was just after. I was on a four-day leave, unusual even for the time, to Starbase 12. I'll never forget the place I was standing when I heard that the Dominion had destroyed Odyssey. I was on L-deck, the junior officers' quarters. It'd been a long night with a cute little deck lieutenant from one ship or another, if you get me. I was in the sonic shower, and I heard this gasp. Like, you shouldn't be able to hear things in the sonic shower. But this I heard.

I came out, threw on my uniform pants, and rushed out to find three other people standing around. All from whatever ship she was from --Challenger, I think it was, or maybe Enterprise. Either way, she was Galaxy-class. They were talking about how easily the Odyssey had been destroyed. First reports said that the Dominion had fired on her and taken out her shields with one round, only to deprive Odyssey of her place in space with the next. None of that was true; we'd later find out that a Jemmy fighter had rammed Odyssey right down the deflector dish. But at the time, Galaxy-class was the best we could do. And for one of those pretties to go down so easily without much warning... everyone was scared.

We lost a lot of good people trying to find out more. Sooner or later they made themselves --and their intentions-- known to us plainly. Founders. Vorta. Jemmy. They worked together. Species-level command structure, they called it. Then we found out specifics. Ketracel white. Where they came from. What they did to those who got in their way.

A less civilized Federation might've realized we had that in common. Hell, even the Maquis knocked off their racket and started joining up after a while. We had a common enemy. They wanted Spoony dead, and we wanted Jemmy dead. It was a fair compromise, especially since they were on the same team.

Spoony wasn't so bad to me at first. I went out with a platoon out of 345th. We operated from Bismarck, I think it was-- my first drop. We still called it a 'drop'. Apparently the term had originated from a time in the past when soldiers like ourselves would drop from the sky, somehow. I would guess that they used some sort of rocket boots. I can't imagine any other way for that to work. But then, I didn't make redshirt sergeant by being a brain.

* * *

It was just us and a few other divisions working against the Ninth Order of the Cardassian Union over on Garpi Prime. The captain was a real carbon rod, too-- his idea of a pep talk was some sort of speech about how "we go to gain a planet that has no profit in it but the name" or something. I don't remember how that went. We held the planet, city by city, and worked our way across with good air support. What really held it for us, though, was the Fleet. Whole Third Fleet came swooping in, cut off Spoony's supply lines. Like it or not, replicators and field medical stations only hold you out for so long. Like with phasers, they don't mean you can live forever.

That was when I started picking up on the game a bit more, after that first drop. I didn't really shoot at anyone-- they kept me back of the lines, doing clean-up. Brass called them "goodwill stations" or "police zones", that kind of nice-nice talk the Fed is known for. People on those worlds didn't care. They knew they were just another ball of rock in space for us to hang troops on. Or bury them on. To Command, it's all the same, as long as the right flag flies over that world.

It was about that time that I started to realize how drops worked. By all rights, we shouldn't have dropped off Bismarck-- Excelsior-class ships don't usually carry full battalions of redshirts. Usually we get stationed on ships that have room. After Odyssey, they stopped carrying civvies onboard Galaxy-class ships. By comparison to a barracks starbase-side, it was days off. Usually that's what we operated off-- either that or Nebula-class, since they had saucer sections big enough to accommodate both crew and redshirts. Later on we made some drops off Sovereign- or Akira-class ships. Actually, we were onboard Kaga, she's an Akira-class, when the Borg showed up right in the middle of the war. Here we were thinking about nothing but Jemmy, and Borg drop in. Enterprise was out of the war after that-- our second Sovereign-class ship in the whole Starfleet already sidelined in the blink of an eye. All we knew was that they turned up around Earth three days later after everyone took 'em for dead, with a quarter of the crew left alive.

My section second, Tim Walters, was on Enterprise. I've read the reports. I still can't believe what happened. Walters lived through it. You know how they feted Picard when he recovered from his Borg experience, even though he took down thirty-nine of our ships? Walters was like that. Only he'd lived. I guess after the Borg hive-mind died on Enterprise, Walters was only partially assimilated. He still remembers fighting hand-to-hand with a Borg on Deck 4 when something came out of its hand and bit him. Since they cured Picard, they'd come a long way in understanding Borg implants, and they were able to fix up some sixty or seventy Enterprise crew members and put 'em back in the lines. We still rib Walters for saying 'we' from time to time. But he's gotta be careful: those Borg drones are still in his blood, and if he's not careful, resistance is gonna get a might futile.

Walters wasn't with us until about, I'd say, a third of the way through the war. After all, they wouldn't have put him back in the line if they hadn't needed him quite so badly. Good with computers. He was a specialist, classification R-2. I still swear it's those drones in his hands.

I started to clue into specialist classifications about the same time. R-1 meant you got a sniper rifle that transported the bullets right into Jemmy's chest-- even through bare rock. R-2 meant you worked with computers. R-3, explosives experts. Give them a phaser and they'd give you a working antimatter mine. R-4 are engineers. They don't work with computers, they work with everything else. Bridges and doorways, that sort of things. Starfleet Corps of Engineers usually trained and provided those. And R-5s were the specials. You know, either they were Betazoids or reformed murderers or nimble knife-fighters, or they had a knack for combat, some other special trait to them. These were just for combat sections of course. Support sections had your counsellors, your replicator monitors, your battalions of combat engineers yearning to construct a starbase on the battlefield. Those types were in back of the line. Rumour had it that they had whole squads of specials that they put to use for one reason or another. Kind of creeps me out, to think of it. Those specials scared me as much as Jemmy.

Tim Walters should've been designated R-5, to be sure, but we didn't want to bump out Renalla Yan. She was our Betazoid-- full Betazoid, accept no substitutes. She knew we all thought she was real pretty to look on. There was no hiding it. Didn't bother her none. Our R-1 was an Andorian, by the name of Sholar. I've never seen anyone quite so possessive with his rifle-- but it was highly classified technology, so much so that we needed a special R-4 in our squad just to be allowed an R-1, someone trained and intelligence-rated to work on the sniper rifle. After all, Jemmy could already walk among us shrouded, and his Boss could take on our form to get inside our lines. Shooting through walls at us was the last thing we wanted to make him capable of doing.

And I don't doubt that the Founders knew about those rifles long before. But they were --I've read-- always so supremely confident that they could drown us solids in an ocean of their goo. And where they couldn't do it themselves, they had Jemmy. So it wasn't like they could lose. Or so they thought. At least, so we thought.

* * *

I suppose I should do something more than backstory you to death. After all, everyone knows this stuff-- we've all lived through it at this point. They told me when I came in, this is a debriefing, not a storytelling session. Still, nobody listens to me much back home so I'm much obliged for the chance to go on like an old man.

I was with the 345th for about nine months, until I started rating section lead worthy and getting the Brass' attention. This worked okay for me, as I didn't really know what else I was going to do in the line with the 345th. We made a couple other drops before I was transferred --once off Agincourt, a Nebula-classer, twice off Shokaku, an Akira-classer, and once more off Endeavour, a Galaxy-classer. Then they transferred me when Endeavour stopped at Starbase 183, and I went aboard Constitution, another Galaxy-classer to Field Officer Training for eight weeks at Starbase 34. I'd say more about the drops, but... well, there's some things I saw I don't want to get into. Things that keep me up at night. And some things I think are best left untold. Things like happened with T'lani-- after all, they wouldn't have even put me off AR-543 for training if she'd lived to fight another day. Whole experience from Garpi to AR left me feeling like Starfleet couldn't organize a replicator line, let alone a war. Jemmy had us back on our heels.

That was where I met Walters. It was a long time since I'd found someone to talk to, mostly because I went quiet unless someone was shooting me. After a while, you get to realize how much of a privilege communication is, when you see girls you loved or men you called brothers lying in their own blood --or with nothing left of them but a name on a casualty list. You stop talking, because if you do, what comes out is nothing more than rage and anger. You're afraid to take the chance. That's how I became. Suppose I still am.

We got to be close, Walters and me. We both had that unspeakable horror. His was on Deck 4 of Enterprise. Mine was on Rintral IV, buried under the rocks of what we'd taken to calling Larvin Point. Our first patrol past that point captured a snivelling Vorta of the same name and took him back to be interrogated. He suicided on the way back, soon to be replaced by another fresh out of cryo. But Jemmy came looking for their Vorta. They couldn't help themselves. We slaughtered them by the hundreds. After a while, we forced ourselves to stop caring. And finally, the Starfleet Corps of Engineers just detonated the whole of the pass (which became Larvin Pass) that led to Larvin Point. It took a week for Jemmy's new boss to arrive from their cryo chambers. By that point, we had so many Jemmy corpses --and casualties of our own-- on our hands, that we all just started wondering if we were going to last the war.

Walters pointed out to me that the Borg and the Dominion have that in common. They just keep coming. You're not a name any longer-- you're a number. First of Seven, Four of Five. They don't value their lives. After all, they've got nothing to do with it but suck down the white and destroy what they're sent to. They're implacable. At least Jemmy has the merits of not making you into one of him. He just makes you good and dead.

And that's the thing. Walters was Borg. But what they did to him was nothing compared to what Jemmy did to me. Even if there is an armistice, he's still there in my mind. I'm thankful for Renalla every day. She kept us all focused. She would just reach out, into our minds, and take the grief, the horror, and all that hatred away from us. If it wasn't for her, I'd be off curled up in a corner someplace. I might be parsecs away, but my mind would always be holding Larvin Point.

That was nothing compared to what came after we cleared training, though. Walters and I fixed up to stick together, which is why he became my section second. I also saw to his R-2 rating. Breaking into officer routines isn't so bad. Breaking the troops... well, that's different. Took me about a week to sort out all the questions of who was section leader.

* * *

Just in case you don't know, each section has a leader who oversees two companies. My two companies --Delta and Echo-- are part of the 202st Starfleet Marine Division. They still call us Marines just for good measure, but we take the term 'redshirt' to heart. It all started back in the days when the Federation was all of ten worlds, and the uniforms were a bright red, or green, or blue. I think that was it, anyway. Green was brass. Blue was science. Red was everyone else. Mostly the cannon fodder. So we came to be known as 'redshirts'. Being a redshirt became a mark of impending doom: then Starfleet Command got whiff of it and changed it so nobody wore anything but white. Marines got word of this and went ape on them --unless we were fighting on a snow-covered world, we were easy targets. And even then, they weren't exactly warm. So Command changed the uniform again. Now everyone was a redshirt. The only difference was the collar and the arm braids. But the name stuck.

Somewhere along the line, starboys got their name from the redshirts. Probably along the course of one barroom brawl or another. Starfleet Command likes to promote interservice rivalry, between the starboys and the redshirts and the engineers. Engineers, I'd like to note, are and ever have been just that: engineers. No one calls them any different. Many have tried to come up with a suitable nickname for them. Many have found themselves in a malfunctioning turbolift or an improperly sealed airlock as a result. So we just call them the Starfleet Corps of Engineers. It's safer for everyone that way.

Anyway, the Two-Oh-Second was the pride of Starfleet, mostly because it had a whole Vulcan battalion. This was all the rave back then: to have battalions, sections and platoons worked out and shaken down on the basis of planetary or species affiliation. The idea was, I'm told, to once again promote rivalry and competition. Jemmy didn't care much. And instead of losing one or two sons and daughters, whole planets suffered if a platoon, squad or even a division was utterly wiped out. It wasn't a smart policy, but we worked around it.

Not that it shook the Vulcans any. Some of the younger ones --who still had something to live for-- realized that psych-warfare logic made such sections a ripe target for Jemmy. Wipe out a whole section of Vulcans and cripple a major Federation world-- made sense to me when Ronik explained it to me. Ronik is my section officer, and I reported to him. I mean, he was my section officer. I apologize if I switch back and forth from present to past tense-- I figure you guys must hear that a lot.

Anyway, Ronik wasn't so bad for a Vulcan. He didn't like war a whole lot-- he was a thinking man, see. But he did what the Federation told him was the greater good. No disputing with Ronik. He knew the way he liked his sections, and he knew the way Lieutenant Sorvik liked his regiments. Sorvik's job was to know how Commander Tulin liked his battalions, and Tulin had to learn real quick how Captain Valan liked his division. Vulcans right up and down the officers' corps. Made an enlisted man kind of hesitant to command. But I got my sections in shape, bunked them off in pairs, worked them in drills in the same pairs, kept them alive in pairs. It was Walters' idea-- exponential infantry. We had sixteen redshirts per, thirty-two in the section. Eight were specials. To a Borg-brain like Walters, pair, quad, eight, company, section... easy organization. Earned us both a commendation for original thinking. Then Starfleet went and upped section size to forty, twenty per company. Tim needed a week to adjust. You'd think he'd be able to adapt more quickly.

Ronik was decent. While we were on Starbase 435, he had us up for dinner one night and broke out some Romulan ale. We had a fine time griping to our CO, sharing with him what the troops told us. He just took it all as serenely as it could come. And, you know, I can see why. Fellow like Ronik knows the history of thousands of wars inside and out. By some armies' standards, Starfleet does right by its troops like they're being put up in a resort, not sent out to war. But Starfleet's designed to be better at everything. Funny how that resort feeling left the Vulcan command with a lot of gripes and a low efficiency rating.

Which is why Captain Valan cracked down on us before we even left dock. I had a hard time with the men because of that. Triple sets of cali drills-- for everyone, even the support sections. Daily lessons in phaser rifle handling, Jem'Hadar infantry tactics, Cardassian psychostrategy, air- and space-defense measures, electromagnetic countermeasures, proper conduct while off-duty... anything you can think of, we had to reinforce into the troops, then model ourselves after the lesson. That was the hardest part-- since Walters and me were easy-going about stuff most of the time, we even had to clamp down on each other. One night we got to fighting about it before I shrugged off the synthehol and made him calm down enough to see he was bleeding. I hit him pretty good with a right hook and went straight to the sickbay, hoping I wasn't in the process of getting assimilated. Fortunately, I wasn't.

Then orders came down that we were to report to USS Thunderchild, NCC-63549, for impending assignment. Rumour claimed more ears than any concussion mine ever will, and before we knew it we were touring off for all points between. Orders came down to keep the troops from firing their rifles outside of approved rifle training areas, to keep their mouths shut about the troop movements, to stay calm and to report any overly heroic or defiant displays to the division psychiatric section. Needless to say, just reading those orders to the troops made us all feel a little more mortal. We didn't have any problems in-section-- and I asked Renalla to keep an eye out, if you will, for anything. All she got was anxiety and hope in varying degrees. I was glad to hear it.

Thunderchild was Akira-class. She was one of the finest ships I've ever had the privilege of calling my own. It was around that time that we were introduced to the Shadowfax-class troop transports. Each one was like a runabout, only equipped with twin rows of seats running aft of the transporter room and warp core assembly. These seats faced across, rather than forward, and they were meant to be used as dropships. Enough room in each for a section.

Ours was USS Rienzi. Each of the Shadowfax-classers were named for a famed horse, either of war or of speed, from literature or history. There was Bucephalus, Traveller, Secretariat, Snowmane, Gringolet, Rozinante, and Rienzi. These eight were loaded onto Thunderchild, and when the battalion went into battle, each would have a starboy crew of four onboard to operate the rotary phaser cannons and fly the thing, so we wouldn't have to. Tim and I each sat in back, while Ronik sat up front with the starboys.

We did dropship training for a week, since we weren't just beaming in anymore. Bad experience on Sarlacc III: a whole regiment had beamed onto the planet, only to be destroyed by a well-placed Jemmy minefield right in the middle of their beam-in points. I heard later that this particular world was hard to beam into, so Jemmy just put the mines between the transport-enhancers and waited. Spook mines. They'd never had a chance. We wouldn't let Jemmy have that easy a go of it again. Next time, we'd be ready to go down the long way. No sure thing that we'd have to, though. I certainly felt more comfortable with Rienzi and her sisters in the skies above us, but Peregrine-class fighters were just as reassuring. Air superiority... angels on our shoulders. Makes it easier to sleep at night, believe me.

The first night after we dropped the first time, down on Buruta II, was the most comfortable night I'd spent on a planet since I'd signed up. That was the first drop I made as a sergeant, first drop with the Two-Oh, first drop in Rienzi. That many firsts, and not a Jemmy to show for it. I think they let us in, personally. Considering what came after... I wouldn't be surprised.

* * *

We made camp right around Rienzi. Our R-4, a Caitian named M'nur, used the Mk I Fieldworks and Tunnelling (FaT) unit to set up some trenches and underground depots for storing munitions. I ordered eight shirts on the watch around Rienzi. We were three klicks from Rozinante, and two from Snowmane. We were right where we should've been. Setting up the perimeter was the first step.

It was a quiet night, all things considered. Jemmy was probably scouting us out before we could get up the low-level tachyon fields. They instituted those --modified transporter beacons that worked sort of like a proximity detector. After a while, Jemmy got the hint and started laying charges just close enough to break the proximity detector, and force a patrol sortie out of our circle. It was an effective tactic. Until we started manning phaser drones.

Walters was good for that. He actually rigged up the drones to respond to his nanotech. So he'd be controlling the perimeter in his sleep. No one questioned it. It kept us safe and made patrol easy walking. Though nobody slouched or snoozed--- Walters had his eyes on that, too. And he wasn't above a shot across the bow.

Walters made my job easy. Him and Renalla both. Renalla could gauge in a minute where everyone was at-- and co-ordinating counterattacks was so easy with her around. Jemmy could block comm channels, but he never did clue into telepathy. I figure it's just as well. Jemmy didn't have much of a mind to be read. And if he started comin' back at Renalla, well... that would've been worrisome.

I suppose the hard thing about Renalla was that she knew how I felt about her before I did. That made a double problem for me. First off, the moment you start feeling all Starfleet-standard-issue touchy-feely about someone if you're a redshirt, you should get yourself a transfer notice. Because you will see that person bleed, you will see that person maimed, and you will see that person die. It's not inevitable. If you transfer, that is.

Renalla knew how I felt about death. Renalla knew most of us better than we knew ourselves. We were fascinating to her. That night she volunteered to join me in the command post, keeping an eye on the surround. I was working on the sensor calibrations when I noticed she wasn't moving much. Thinking I'd caught her sleeping, I made a sudden motion towards her, and she jumped.

She shook it off, and I caught her looking at me with a startled gaze that told me just how deep in my cortex she'd been when I glanced over.

"Hello," she said, half-startled.

"You know what I'm thinking," I said, "And not 'cause of the look on my face."

"Yeah," she replied. "It's so strange, you know... I mean, I'm not letting myself speak into others' minds without permission or orders."

"I told you before, that's how I want it. I know you have that ability, but you know how I am."

"You really think it matters to them?" she asked.

"Of course it does, Ren. Each of them --they're all thinking that they're the only ones who are going through this right now."

"It's just an illusion. I know it. You know it."

"They don't. And I need them to believe they're in this alone. Otherwise they'll never work together."

She gave me a look I didn't need to be Betazoid to read. "I don't understand. My people have nothing to hide from each other. We can't. It's all there, like the wind. We don't keep it to ourselves, we just let it pass between us."

"There's an old Earth expression for that: not seeing the forest for the trees."

"I don't understand."

"Like the Vulcans do. All about the greater good. Always putting yourself second."

"We're supposed to be doing that. You know: Fed, fleet, home, self. For me, home is wherever there are voices telling me that life exists."

"Those voices... too much for me."

"Well, yes," she whispered, moving closer to me. "If you say them out loud. And if you can only trust your ears."

"But you don't understand, now. What you call a limitation, I call a blessing. I don't want to hear them. I have enough battling around in me, that I don't need to take them on, too."

"Then how can you lead them?" She paused for a moment, then added, "not that I'm questioning your command abilities, or anything."

"No, I don't take it as such. Still. I think I'm better qualified because I think I understand them. I want them to surprise me. I don't want to get too close to them, either."

"The loss of any one voice diminishes us all."

"That's just what I mean. I wouldn't be able to cope with it. I'm--- I'm not. I just keep thinking about all the folks I lost."

"That you lost?" Her tone was an unmistakeable surprise.

"Yeah. I mean, I already feel a sort of... common sense. Like we're all the same out here. Even you specials. We all bleed red."

"Except the Vulcans."

"You know what I mean. Redshirt outside, red meat inside."

"Yeah. I know what you mean. Still. I also know you pretty well."

"You think so, do you."

"Yeah. I mean, you've done pretty well for yourself, considering the trouble you got into when you were a kid. I just kind of wish you could forgive your father for----"

"Hey," I snapped, a bit too forceful. "That's just the kind of thing I don't want bringing up."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she rolled down off the pancake of mud we were sitting on, into a reclined position. Her big dark eyes just kind of caught the starlight above, reflecting it back. I could see the universe, through her eyes. "I just wanted you to know that I'm not afraid."

"Of what?"

"Any of you. Especially not you, Sean."

Ren and I had been friendly with each other before, but she never called me by name. It'd always been Sergeant Dixon. But I got used to it. She was about the only person I was comfortable with calling me by that. We talked most of the night-- I kept my tricorder out on area sweep, and with the patrols reporting to my command post every few hours, I didn't get much sleep either way.

* * *

We'd converted the floors and seats in Rienzi down for bedding-- there were also sets of second racks above the seats designed either for bedding down or stowing phaser rifles. And since we'd dug out our dumps, we had extra space for everyone except the patrol dogs and the guys in charge to get a good night's rest. Not that I would've slept anyway. Not that Walters would've passed up the chance for some sack time. He was awake in parts of himself even when he was sleeping. It was just the way he'd been reconstructed. Didn't bother any of us none.

But Ren didn't leave. There was an extra bunk back on Rienzi-- I'd made sure it was available for her. She didn't want it. She was more than content to sit there, watching the cosmic show go on, with me as the only other member of the audience.

It was about that time that I heard the noise on the far side.

"Fire on high!" went out the challenge.

"Fire down below!" came back the countersign. I recognized him instantly-- it was hard not to tell. Rocket boots with fuel packs off to one side, a phaser holster on one side, a tricorder on the other. Helmets under one arm, connected by a fat wire to their belts. This redshirt was a Pathfinder.

"Report," I demanded, straightening up to full height. Pathfinders dropped out the back of a Mk VII shuttlecraft, high orbital, and went down, head-first. They had shield generators in their helmets and along their kit, to keep the ground fire off their fuel cells. It was their job to scout out a beacon site for us, and keep the position as undetected as they could until we gave Jemmy no reason to mistake us.

"Reckon Jemmy ain't got a clue we're here, sir."

"How can you be sure?"

"Sensors didn't detect a thing--- no life signs for thirty klicks around. And no one's been around to check on that beacon."

"You've done well. Two-Oh-Second appreciates your hard work."

"Thank you, sir. Much obliged. This is regiment HQ?" The trooper looked disappointed.

"Actually, they're off at..." I checked the heading for him. "Three-one-five. Six klicks."

"You change your perimeter landing routines before you left the ship, sir?"

"Pardon?" I saw it. I saw the look the same time he did. Renalla had this momentary look of pure fear on her face. "STARFLEET ON YOUR FEET!"

I don't know how I screamed so loud, but I did. This was no Pathfinder. He scowled and lunged at me, but I stepped aside and watched him splash into a puddle of that damned goo.

By this point, the entire section was up in arms. A few phaser shots came across, bathing the surround in that crimson of the 'kill' setting. But it was already swimming in Founder. I tossed out my tricorder and scanned for it, but it was gone. Just like that.

"Sir?" came about ten bewildered screams.

Walters came bolting up. "What in hell---?"

"At ease! SECTION!" I bellowed again, and brought everyone down a few settings. "Safety arms! Stand down!"

Walters was just staring at me. "Nicely done, Dix."

"I did NOTHING. The only reason I'm still alive is because I knew more about the drop than he did. Pathfinders tell US the perimeter, NOT the other way around. Bastards--- Scholtz! Patch me through to Bucephalus. We've got to inform Section HQ-- Jemmy knows we're here now."

"What about those Pathfinders?" Walters asked. I gave him a look that I hoped could convey the bad timing of his inquiry.

"We'll just have to hope they made it back." But I knew better. I'd seen what just one g'jube could do to a perimeter. Pathfinders were hopeless-- all on their own with only each other to depend upon. The Founder set the beacon right where it was supposed to be just to throw us off. That night didn't have much more until dawn chased it away.What it brought for the morning was anyone's guess.

Sure enough, when I got the report back from HQ, their advance patrols had happened upon the bodies of ten Pathfinders. There'd been an attempt at concealment, but it's hard to hide remains from a tricorder. We beamed the corpses back to Thunderchild for proper treatment and identification. Though it wasn't hard.

After all, they were only Pathfinders. They were acceptable casualties. Whether or not a whole section would qualify for that honour was something I was afraid we were about to find out.

* * *

I ordered the troops to start making hasty provisions for what I thought was sure to follow. After all, I'd been at Larvin Pass. It doesn't take long for Jemmy to figure out that there's a Starfleet presence on a planet. What I didn't realize at the time was that the 317th was on the far side of the ridge, some hundred-plus klicks over, fighting a desperate battle to link up with us. They were supplied well, they just didn't want to lose the front. After all, we were inserted mostly to plug a gap.

That wasn't the original orders, though. Originally we were supposed to drop on some population centre and flush out Jemmy, like a city or a starport, I don't recall. I --and, by default, Renalla-- were the only ones who knew of this. But I wasn't scared. I would've been more comfortable fighting in a city. At least there you can be content with lines of fire six metres long and be comfortable with your eternal anxiety. Fighting out in a wooded area gave me a sense of calm I should never have experienced on a battlefield. Sure, we were redshirts, but we were also asking for it by not closer to Jemmy.

One thing before I go on, though. There's no place worse for a redshirt than in a cave. We call it "the Janus effect", for two reasons. One, a lot of good redshirts lost their lives on a planet of that name, fighting some kind of acid-shooting creature. But also, because you need two faces-- one to look behind, one to look ahead. Jemmy could turn up anywhere. Of course, in the wrong tunnels, you really needed spherical perception, the ability to see in as many directions as you could take fire in. Not many caverns are conveniently sized for us redshirts to march all in a row. Those are the ones you hope you never have to see. Those ones are usually widowmakers.

Seems to me, though, like fighting in a big empty field is murder. We fight in a cave and we die, one at a time, surprised or bushwhacked. We fight in a field, and all Jemmy has to do is hold down the trigger. That's what scared me most. Redshirts are trained to do two things: fight and die in close-quarters. All our phaser tactics are adapted to deal with corners and with closed rooms. We've become so specialized at doing that, to the point where we look at history and ask ourselves, how the hell did they DO that? Massed numbers of men charging forward into massed counterassaults, armoured land vehicles (without even an antigrav pad on them!), marching ---marching! in rows! How many redshirts can Jemmy shoot through with one tunnelling beam? Let's find out!

The concept is foreign to Starfleet. So you can understand my anxiety going into battle with nothing between me and the death Jemmy was bringing but a tree here, a berm there, the occasional bit of underbrush running along a winding stream off to our right. That's not a place to do battle. What are you supposed to do, line up and prepare to die? No, thanks. I had the FaT out to get us some lines of fire. I called over Corny.

"CORNY! Front and CENTRE!" Poor Kornilov had the most unfortunate name in Starfleet. But there was a guy like him in every squad, on every command, and hanging around every starbase, in the whole Starfleet. You know the type. They think our civilization peaked just before the Eugenics Wars, right around 1985 or so. So they get all up in arms playing on the holodeck like they're Americans or Britains or whatever other countries there were back then. Nowadays a nation-state is as foreign a concept as fighting in the sunlight. But there's still those who cling to such ideas.

Kornilov was one of those types. His specialty was his home region's history. We still call it "the Ukraine" now. I don't know why--you know the region in and around the northern half of the Black Sea's shores, on the Asian continent. Provided that you're from Earth.

In the time Corny loves reading about, his ancestors were put on massive farms, forced to work for the state (some kind of Red Union), and conscripted into the Red Army. I don't know if they had redshirts, though the way Corny tells it, they didn't need uniforms. They had partisans who fought the way we do today. Corny gets a certain gleam in his eye when he tells us that the redshirt fighting style was invented by a little old lady in Dnepropetrovsk, his home town. It's usually followed by a few objects hurled in his general direction, and a collective groan.

Fortunate I was to have him around, with his interests in military history being what they are. "Corny. You know field infantry tactics? Think twentieth century. That's your thing."

"Yes, sir. I don't know if I can be of any help to you-- maybe... if I may?" He pointed behind us, probably back towards his kit.

"Go ahead," I replied, and he dashed off, coming back a moment later with a padd.

"This is a brief history of the battle of Kursk. Largest tank battle in history. You can see how" --and at this he tapped the pad, setting in motion a number of boxes which flowed freely around the map-- "how the tanks operated in formations against one another. It's not anything we'd be used to. We'll have to rely upon two-dimensional thinking."

"That's going to put us at a tactical disadvantage. We can't go a couple decks down, or tunnel around them. We'll have to engage them in open combat."

"I would think so, sir."

I dreaded it. We've reached an evolved sensibility now, one the redshirts of Kursk time couldn't understand. Casualties are not acceptable-- not even in war. We can't just send people out to die. We're required to do whatever we can to safeguard the lives of everyone who fights with us. And that includes not sending them off to die stupidly. Not even for the greater good.

I don't know, that's how I was raised anyway. I don't doubt there were a couple people in that squad who were completely taken with this romantic, backwards way of conducting a war. I had Medic Singh set up his shop right down in the command post, and had M'nur dig him out more room and better cover from the direction from which we expected to be attacked.

"What we need to form is what the old sort would've called a hedgehog, sir. Bristling in all directions, even upwards."

"With what? Spears and arrows?"

"No, sir. Our lines of fire can be enfilladed in such a way that we can form a completely circular control point."

"That still makes us highly susceptible to air attack."

"I thought about that--- not if we get these unicorns in the air. Where they should be, sir."

"All right. I'll call in air support."

"Sir?"

"Well, I'm not just going to let them lift off without cover."

"Cover from what?" Walters said. He'd just come up to see what the fuss was all about.

"Jemmy ground fire. We can't risk our horses being cut down."

"They've got ablative armour, and their shields will be up. They're smart enough to get out of here if they need to, but they're not as fragile as you seem to think they are. What's your angle, Corny?"

"Continuous, sir."

Walters gave him a confused look. "Come again?"

"You familiar with the concept of a hedgehog formation?"

"Yeah. I've been trying to corral everyone into forming one, but I can't raise Baker company on the channel."

"We need runners, sir."

"Runners? But the horses are resting on them."

"No, sir--- runners. People to run back and forth between formations with orders and messages. Jemmy can't jam us unless we're dead."

I thought for a moment, and said, "Let me go you one better. REN!" Renalla came running over from where she was setting up a heavy phaser rifle emplacement with M'nur. "Get me the Lieutenant."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He's a Vulcan. You're a Betazoid. Can't you communicate?"

"It'll be difficult at range. Let me see what I can do." She closed her eyes and turned her back to the front lines. "I think I've found him. What should I tell him?"

"Corny-- explain this to the corporal."

"Yes, sir!" Corny looked like I'd just given him permission to go to heaven. Given the way he was looking at Renalla, I don't doubt that's just where he was.

Within a matter of minutes, the regiment had formed a continuous front, completely circular. The horses were getting ready for takeoff, with the understanding that they were to operate in a limited offensive role, sweeping through enemy emplacements to take out munitions or well-covered holes. And so we waited, rifles at the ready. The Lieutenant came up to me about an hour later. I was explaining to Walters how I wanted the auto-rifles slung in covered positions to simulate heavy rifles when I heard his flat yet powerful Vulcan tone

"Sergeant Dixon," he said. "While I was pleased that you arrived at the same solution to our defensive dilemma, I must admit that I was very impressed with your solution to our communications difficulties." He indicated Renalla with an arched eyebrow. "However, I would prefer if, in future, you use a physical, rather than mental, messenger."

"Yes, sir," I mumbled. Green blood must cut off the circulation to the innovative parts of the brain. I thought it was a good idea.

"Very well. Our situation remains grave. What are our options?"

"We know that Jemmy is going to come at us soon, sir."

"What proof have we of that?"

"Rienzi picked up faint life signs from three directions when she lifted off five minutes ago, sir. We suspect we caught a few Jem with their shrouds down."

"Yet their offensive still remains formless."

"Afraid so, sir. But I have relay points every hundred metres along the perimeter. Just far enough apart to avoid concentration, but within range of a voice."

"Well done. We should divide the circle into equal triads, in order to better co-ordinate defense. Should one side come under heavy attack, proper communication can make reserves that much sooner in coming from other points."

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

"Certainly."

I shrugged and shifted my weight onto one foot. Hadn't noticed I'd been subconsciously standing at attention in his presence. I mean, Ronik wasn't such a bad guy, but he stood almost two full metres in height. Such a dominant figure made a dominant man, even if he was beyond acting that way. Suppose the green blood took that out of you, too.

"Reckon that's just what Jemmy's going to expect, sir. They're counting on us having limited numbers. That's why I set up concentric levels of defense. I figure they've got our perimeter scouted-- that's why I had us set it up in such a way that the first line is easily abandoned, but hard to hold from the outside in."

"Illogical. If we hold this position, we should stand fast."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but we don't exactly have any place to retreat to. Jemmy's going to expect us to keep the horses on the ground so we can fight our way back into them, one metre at a time."

"An unorthodox solution, this idea of yours to set the entire regiment's transports to flight."

"Well, sir, I was thinking we should contact T-child as well and have them ready emergency beamout within the third level of defense. If we fall back too hard, I don't think we can afford too many casualties."

"Agreed. However, our mission will be a failure, and we will be forced to abandon goods in order to focus on personnel retrieval. Such an object is... not wise."

"No, sir. But, if I may?"

"Of course, Sergeant. I value your input."

"Thank you, sir, and if I may, I appreciate the chance to say it just the way it's gonna sound." I shifted my weight again. I saw Walters peering at me like I was already crazy. "I reckon this ain't a fight we can win if we think about it in terms of exit strategies before we've entered the battle. We need to be fierce. Fierce like Jemmy H. himself, sir."

Lieutenant Ronik gave me a long, hard, Vulcan look. He pursed his lips and sent one eyebrow headlong. I swear, it shot up a good half-metre. After a moment, he tilted his head, and said, "Sergeant, you are clearly a human soldier, leading an entire unit of human soldiers. No other species I have encountered has had such a singular capacity for ignoring their emotions in so Vulcan a manner when the moment befits."

"Again, not to be too blunt, sir... but we're not ignoring anything. We're just advancing it in a different direction."

"We will follow your direction. To whatever end."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He nodded at me, and turned. His retinue of staff officers trampled off after him, leaving me with Renalla and Walters.

"Do you think you can pull off even half the crap you just told that man you could?"

"Oh, Tim, don't be like that," Renalla said with a touch of desperation in her voice. "Sean's just doing what he can to get us out of here."

"If you're askin' me, he shouldn't have slept through all them classes on defensive infantry tactics."

"Yeah, well, we all can't absorb information the way you do," I shot back, with special emphasis on the collective term. I know I hurt Tim more with that statement than any Jemmy could've with any weapon. But he just snickered.

"Look, we got work to do," he said. "We can settle this later."

"All right," I replied. I myself was hoping not to survive the day. I'd grappled with Tim before. Let's just say that he got more out of the Borg than just trauma. That man was tough.

* * *

I moved a few guns around, kept checking with the listening posts and monitoring stations--- nothing to report. If Jemmy was out there, he was doing quite a job to keep himself hid. I went around, trying to give everyone a reassuring word or two, trying to keep their fighting spirits up. It was little use. Even the best-prepared defense was nothing to Jemmy. He didn't care if he died. They just grew more of him. And there was only one way to fight that kind of growth: a stasis field. For the time being, we were to be the emitter.

I caught Renalla as I made my way along the line, and I pulled her aside. "Promise me something, Ren?"

"Sure. What?"

"One of us has to get out of here."

"I hope it's you."

I looked at her for a moment. "You know what I think about that."

"Don't do anything stupid, okay? We're both getting out of here."

"No. I don't mean that."

"What?"

"I mean, if I have to order you out---"

"They'll have to court-martial me." Her big dark eyes were sincere. "I'm not leaving without you. Remember what I said before-- Fed, fleet, home, self?"

"Yeah."

"I left out friends. They come way ahead of all that."

"Don't say that."

"I'm a Betazoid. We don't say things we don't mean."

"I thought that was the Vulcans."

"No, they can't lie. We just don't allow ourselves any pretense at all. And I'm telling you. We're getting out of here. Maybe not all of us, but you and I."

"So you can read the future, too?"

"I can fight for the one I want." She smiled. "And if that doesn't work, I'll just steal a horse and reel around the sun, go back and try again."

"Time travel."

She snickered at me. "You get those stripes for conspicuous statement of the obvious, or what?"

"Conspicuous?"

"I don't know what it means either-- they just have it on the medals. I think it means someone noticed."

"Well, in that case... your concern for me is very conspicuous."

"Okay. If it's not, I'll just funnel it all right into your brain."

"Don't." She was kidding, I know--- but I wasn't. Last thing I needed was a bunch of happy-friend feelings jamming my signal when I'm trying to shoot Jemmy dead.

"No, I wouldn't. But... well... just watch your back."

"That's what I have Sholar. He can pick them off if they get too close."

"Right..." She smiled at me and said, "I'm in the line at point 315."

"Okay." I still don't know why she told me that. I don't think she did it to worry me. But I was nursing point 315 for the next four hours.

I don't remember where I was at the exact moment Jemmy arrived. We were expecting him, of course, just... not quite so many of him. Wherever I was, it wasn't between point 180 and point 225. Because right in front of them, unshrouding with precision, emerged a full section of Jemmy. Redshirts opened fire instantly, but Jemmy kept on coming. A second section materialized behind them. Then a third. Then they broke into a run.

I showed up just as the seconds materialized. Then I realized that there weren't enough corpses on the ground.

"Scopes DOWN! Scopes DOWN!" They were firing blind. They weren't checking to tell the difference between the holo-Jemmy and the real thing. And that was just what Jemmy wanted. Three sections that came at us, but afterwards there weren't more than eight or nine bodies on the field. They tried it again a moment later between point 315 and point 360, then once more around both 135 and 270. So they knew our defenses now. Classic Jemmy move. No surprise there.

It came as no surprise, then, that they left point 315 alone. Not much return fire had come from there-- Ren had everything under control. I don't doubt that she was violating orders --and Starfleet regulations-- by conducting unwanted telepathic activity. I don't doubt it, but at the same time, I was as thankful to her for doing it as I was to Jemmy for leaving that point alone. Funny when I realized later that I was thanking Jemmy for trying to squeeze us along an axis running from around 315 at one end and 135 at the other.

To be honest, I wasn't sure if Jemmy was going to commit or not. At that exact moment, part of me wanted to believe that we were deluding ourselves in believing that our ten-klick perimeter would hold. But part of me was wondering if we were just completely off it, thinking Jemmy would risk open combat.

Either way, our position must've come to form a real thorn in Jemmy's side. I say that because moments later, two formations appeared. One on either side of us, marching square at us.

"RANGE!"

"One klick and closing, sir!"

"HOLD your FIRE!" I bellowed up and down the line. The order carried along. I hadn't made it to our end of the line-- Delta held the far point at, I'd say, 248, and Echo met Baker up around point 003. Delta was going to take some serious casualties once Jemmy hit the line--- they were coming at the hedgehog in four lines of fifteen. But we couldn't hit them yet. And they knew that. "ON the line!" I shouted. Everyone with a rifle stood ready to fire. We were all hanging on a razor's edge.

That was the exact moment the other formation unshrouded. Less than twenty metres from the first lines.

* * *

I'd like to say in retrospect that I handled that well. But no one did. Jemmy sprang down into our trenches, teeth bared and blades drawn. We were steeling ourselves for ranged combat and they'd come in right under our sensor grids. Target fixation. That wasn't a mistake I'd make again.

At the same time as the first lines were breached, the distant formation broke into a hard run, firing as they moved. Our flank gunners did a good job putting wounds on Jemmy or pinning him down at that distance. But it was little use. We had a break in our first line. And all we could do was push back!

"STARFLEET!" I screamed. "CHARGE!" We broke from the line, phaser rifles charged and pointed. Some of us kept firing, but the troops in the front trench weren't going to benefit for it. Jemmy was all over them, and no one was willing to take the risk of friendly fire. We hit them hard in an open drive, phaser rifle shots catching them in the chest. Where we had to, we engaged them hand-to-hand. There were more of us than them, and they fell back, giving the front trench troops doing the fighting a chance to retrieve their rifles and cut them down.

"DOWN! Get DOWN!" I yelled, and came up shooting. So did the rest of the line. For now, we held the first trench. I had everyone fall back moments later, just to be on the safe side. There was no way they were sneaking one past us again.

Meanwhile, on the flanks, our troops were hitting the second formation with all they had. They began to beat a retreat, and I saw some of our troops starting to break formation, moving forward.

"HOLD the LINE!" I yelled to them, three times. Eventually they got the message. Especially when a withering crossfire from the sides started to pinch in at them. Jemmy had just been moving into his own trenches. There were about ten to fifteen of them in a narrow position behind a berm half a klick off, and they were firing point-blank. Right into point 315.

"All right--- Sholar! Put some fire on that position!"

"You got it." Sholar fixed his headset, raised his rifle and, moments later, pinched off a shot. Then another. And another. Ten bullets. Ten dead Jemmy out in the trench.

"Nicely done, Sholar."

"Of course it was, pinkskin. What did you expect-- for me to miss?" Andorians don't take praise well.

I could still hear gunfire across the way, but it was too far to run, and we couldn't risk breaking our lines to hold another.

What I didn't realize was that the direct assault we were about to suffer --something like a hundred Jemmy all breaking in on our lines-- had already fallen upon the far side of the circle.

"SIR! They're coming again!"

"STARFLEET!" I turned and readied my rifle. "FIRE at WILL!"

We must've cut down twenty of them before they broke into the trench. Still they kept coming. We fell back out of the first line while Jemmy fell in. Still they kept coming, right into the first line. Walters had his auto-rifles positioned to pinch off a section of the circle before Jemmy even held it. Thirty or forty of them cordoned off into a narrow corridor barely wide enough to lay in. We didn't hesitate. We charged right up and opened fire on them from standing positions.

But then, that was just what their second line was counting on. Another thirty of them unshrouded and fired on us from close range. I saw three, maybe four of ours go down before I realized what was going on. Everyone went down, pinned. Jemmy was counting on that. They wanted that trench as much as we didn't want them in it.

I tore open my side pocket and retrieved a spare officer's phaser I'd picked out from the munitions dump. Thinking fast, I set it to overload, and triggered the auto-fire setting. Then I lobbed it not into the trench. It landed just beyond. The auto-fire didn't work, but the whining noise made Jemmy nervous. He couldn't find where it landed. Some of them stood up. We put them back down. Some of them rolled around. We put a stop to it. And when their second line was close to the trench, in a run, they were almost right on top of the phaser when it went. The formation went in four directions, and at least six of Jemmy were bleeding or not moving on the field.

The rest were up to us. Sholar was doing his best, but it was hard to fire at close range-- his weapon was designed for klicks, not centimetres. Besides, I'd just ordered another charge into the trench. Sholar knew better than to drop his rounds in a hole that had us in it. We all did.

We charged in. I myself danced with two Jemmy, cracking one across the face, and shooting down another. Walters kept them from breaking left or right; they couldn't get past those auto-rifles. With each Jemmy that went down, along with a couple of our own, we had more troops focusing on each other, and less on their own combats. This gave us time to evac wounded, to toss Jemmy's bony corpses up along our front trench for better cover, and to strip the white from them. That was the best we could do in terms of psych-warfare. We knew Jemmy wanted the white. That's why we didn't leave him none.

We also stripped him for other intel. We'd sit Jemmy up in a trench, make sure he was dead with a tricorder (or a phaser rifle-- we weren't picky), and check him over for anything we could pass on to the higher-ups. Rifles, plans, shroud units, anything we could find. One Jemmy had a time bomb strapped to his kit-- but by then, he was in a pile with his brothers and everyone got sprayed with guts. I suppose Jemmy didn't give us much credit, expected us to just keep fighting over the dead. We thought better of that.

Jemmy came at us, using all kinds of tricks, and we'd held. But orders came down that night-- we were moving on, further up to an elevated position. The zone was compromised and we needed to be gone by morning. We packed everything we could back into Rienzi and sent the horses up ahead with the kit in them to clear a hilltop. We were to beat to defensive formations after a brief dinner, and make for a position bearing 075 from the beacon. One of the horses was going ahead to reposition that beacon for us.

I didn't get to eating straightaway. I went over to the medics' area. Of my sixteen troops, we had three in sickbay. I don't know what you'd call it-- sickbay, okay? Jemmy had these rounds that never let you stop bleeding. They were giving the medics fits. One of them, Private Marianne Leduc, was hemmorhaging pretty badly out of this sucking chest wound. I didn't think she'd make it. But Singh and two nurses did what they could. Marianne spotted me --we'd talked a bit during my walkabout-- and the look in her eyes was of such shame.

"I'm sorry, sir. I should've side-stepped when I thrusted. Rookie mistake."

"Make it up to me and get back in that line. Soon."

"Yes, sir. I'm trying, sir. I'm so sorry, sir. I'll make it up to you, I swear it."

"For the uniform, Private."

"For the uniform, sir." Hers was a shambles, mostly because Singh had needed to cut away so much of it to clear the wound. They had nothing that could counter the coagulant in the round. But they'd removed it-- I saw it lying on the ground where Singh or one of the nurses had tossed it aside, and I picked it up.

"I don't want you to lose this," I said to Leduc. "After all, these medics do such a good job, you're gonna need some proof of service."

She tried to laugh, but it came up as a gurgling, hacking cough. "Sir," Singh said, and offered an open hand in a direction away from Marianne. When we'd moved out of earshot, he spoke plainly to me. "I can't do anything for her. We need emergency beam-out."

"I don't have a problem with it."

"No, sir. I mean that we can't contact T-child."

Nothing panicked me quite as severely as hearing that. "Dixon to Thunderchild." I slapped my commbadge again. "Dixon to Thunderchild. Anyone there?" I shook my head. "Nothing."

"I know. You don't suppose---?"

"Dixon to Ronik."

"Ronik here. Go ahead, Sergeant."

"Lieutenant, sorry to bother you--"

"There is no need to apologize for contacting your superior officer, Sergeant Dixon."

"No, sir, I just--- well. Have you had any contact with Thunderchild lately?"

"No. They have left orbit."

"Can I ask why, sir?" There was only one reason an Akira-class battleship left orbit. The same reason we were down on the planet. Namely, the Dominion.

"I am unable to provide you with specific details at this time. I apologize."

"There's no need to apologize for not informing a subordinate, Lieutenant," I replied, consciously derisive.

"Very well. Ronik out."

"What's that all mean?" Singh demanded.

"Means we're all alone out here. Is there anything we have on the horses that could help you along?"

"No. I need a sickbay and some diagnostic equipment. These wounds aren't sealing shut."

"Sterilize her and bag her if you have to. I need as many of my section as you can get in the line."

"I'll do what I can, but the rest just took close shaves or wounds to extremities. This one's--"

"Yeah, I saw it, Doc. Now listen." I know I was panicking. He knew I was, too. I'd never lost anyone under my own command yet. It was different being responsible for them. And I didn't want that on my conscience before the march. "I don't intend to leave anyone behind."

"We wouldn't do that," he replied.

"You know what I mean."

"You mean--- well, we'll do everything we can."

"Unless that means she lives, it's not."

"All right," he said, raising his hands to me. "Let me work."

I moved on, and my feelings were all over the place. I think I was mostly hungry, tired, and taking it out on anyone that got in my way.

"Hey," I heard behind me. I turned, and it was Renalla.

"Hi," I replied.

"I know." That was all she said.

"Know what?"

"That you don't want to talk."

"Suppose not." She knew I wanted to tell her. She knew I wanted to pour it out to her. And I know she did, because she made it her business to know.

"Everything's ready to go," she offered.

"Thanks." I sat down, watching Singh work.

"Anything I can do?" she asked.

"No, thanks." There really was nothing she could do-- at least, not there, under the afternoon sun. Actually, come to think of it, that planet had two of them, a twenty-eight hour day. Binary system. It was a neat little planet. Very few indigenous life forms bigger than insects-- and even then, we didn't see many of those. The planet itself got bitterly cold in the wintertime. Made me very glad we were there in its summertime. I would've hated to do anything more than push Jemmy off the far side. Definitely not a planet worth settling.

Ren just kept searching my feelings. I know she did, even if I told her to stay out of my head. She cared, and she wanted me to know she cared. It was just hard to show it any other way than she was accustomed. You know, with a full-on sharing of everything. But I wasn't up for that. Mostly because I didn't want her to know how I felt. About her, about Marianne lying bleeding in the middle of a field, about this godforsaken field on this godforsaken world in this god--

God... how I wanted to be anywhere else. A nice, pleasant field, not unlike this one--- but not like this. Not with Renalla and me both in uniform. Something a little more comfortable, under those fair, temperate suns, the two of us orbiting each other just like those suns. Far beyond these two stars, far beyond the reach of that bastard with his cold, grey hand pointing his rifle with the poisoned rounds that bled you dry, pointing that damned rifle straight into my heart, and firing.

You see, it wasn't Starfleet or Jemmy or anything else that made me think of throwing down my rifle in despair and running, hard, in whatever direction suited me. It was the Betazoid trying so hard to bring a touch of humanity to a world without it. It was the woman lying on the table, bleeding to death and apologizing to me for it. It was the starship that was supposed to cover us that'd mysteriously vanished.

And I knew exactly what that meant. Jemmy had gone and put a ship of his own in orbit. Probably one bigger than ours. Either it was here or on the way. One way or another, it only meant one thing. We were stranded without a hope of safety. Which meant we had to make such a hope for ourselves. Or die trying.

* * *

It was about then that I got back to dinner. I got my kit and traded out my waste pack for some replicated vittles. That was the way it worked: you wanted out, you put back in. After all, they didn't replicate food from thin air. They needed molecules to derive atoms from, to conserve power. I didn't think about it too hard.

Ren came up to me and wanted to talk some more, and I couldn't evade her by playing the good sergeant. "What is it?" she asked.

"I don't want to get into it," I said. And that was very true.

"Look, I understand."

"No, I don't think you do," I said, turning to face her, my tray of food nearly levelling hers. "You're offering me the chance to get things off my chest. To share my feelings. To make my true self known. And I'm telling you, I can't do that."

"Oh," she muttered. But I didn't stop there.

"What you don't see is that I can't do that. I can't open up to you. Because if anything ever happens to you, then I'm going to blame it on myself."

"But why?" she asked. "You can't protect me. You can't protect any of us. In fact, it's suicide to try."

"Don't you---" But then I caught myself. At least four privates were staring, watching us. I pulled her aside, a few metres off from the group. "Don't you get it, Ren? Every person I've ever cared about, every single one of them, has suffered for it."

"It's you that's not getting it, Sean. They would've suffered anyway. There was nothing you could've done."

"You don't know who I mean."

"Specifically? No. But you don't think I know?"

And she was right. Of course she knew. She'd made it her business to know my mind inside-out. "Maybe you do."

"Suffering isn't anything that can be helped. The Federation takes good care of everyone it has to take care of, and we're all grateful for a capable and compassionate sergeant like yourself, but don't forget. You say you only bring suffering. But every one of those kids over there is relying on you. And so am I. So maybe now isn't a time you should be thinking about yourself."

"And so what if I am? I didn't give up myself when I took these stripes."

"Then maybe you should look into giving them back." She looked at me, plain, her eyes black night at cloudless noon. "Because if you're not willing to give yourself, wholly, for the section, for the cause, for the uniform... well, then, I'm not sure that uniform fits you as well as I'd like to think it does."

"I don't understand," I lied. I was just desperate to keep her talking to me.

"There's a private back there killing herself to live-- for you. There's a whole company of which she's just one of sixteen, and the other fifteen-- all thirty-two of them look up to you. They are counting on you. Everything they see around them tells them they're dead-- that as of this moment, we're all dead, and that the only way out is to go into battle. They see it like that because one look at you and they know it's going to be trouble. And I'm telling you, that's not the way things work on this side of the wormhole."

"Yeah? And how do they work, then?"

"They work by your subordinates looking to you to inspire them to something other than death--- to trust life, to embrace life, and to carry them home. That's what they need right now. They can't have you sulking in your tent. They need a leader. And Starfleet picked you for the task."

"So what? Doesn't mean I can't do it my way. Or does it?"

"If your way isn't making these kids feel like they're in this for the right reasons, what are they fighting for?"

And that was an excellent question. What the hell were we fighting for? At that point in the war, the Romulans were covering their asses, the Spoonheads were just joining up with Jemmy, the Klingons were fighting everyone, even us. And somehow we were supposed to hold a line. What line? We didn't start this war, but by God, we were going to finish it. Or so we were told. The old Jemmy lie, about how 'victory is life', came back to me. What was victory to us at that point? Sustaining the Federation with our blood? That wasn't a practice we could count as such. Our objective was to win the war. But the tactics were all cluster-fragged. And there was nothing anyone could do to turn the fight around. All we knew was that between us and home was an incommunicative starship and a lot of Jemmy.

We eventually marched and made our way up the hills, where we took up a position on the dusky side of a ridge. Just to give you an idea of it, we were a hundred metres off the plain, and we had a section of ten, maybe fifteen metres' width between either side. It stretched for a length of, I'd say, about a good klick and a half, and gave us a commanding view clear out to the lower points of the mountain ridge just beyond us. We'd dropped in on the valley floor on purpose: we hadn't counted on Jemmy getting the drop. But, between two marshes and with high ground in close proximity, we had a fighting chance of holding the position for long enough to pick a direction and advance in it. That was all we needed.

The horses rode ahead with the engineers and medics, and the wounded. Leduc was still holding steady. Tim Walters had some big idea about reprogramming his nanoprobes to seek out the stuff in Marianne's blood, and Singh was trying to get the engineers to approve the mechanics so he could take care of the medical side of things. He'd needed to use the horses' EMH programs. When we got to base, there were eight identical holograms roaming around the camp, looking to diagnose and treat everyone's illnesses.

One of them came across me and Ren as we hiked it up from the valley floor. "You appear to be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I can offer you several treatments."

"And you're lucky you're a hologram or I'd slug you back down this ridge-- how's that for a treatment?" I have no patience for holograms. Some types prefer to go off to a holodeck, get their jollies shooting up or seducing some computer program. Me, I don't live out fantasies. Don't think it's proper to not involve flesh and blood. War did a little too much of that for my liking, to be sure. But I definitely wasn't for going without.

Renalla gave him a stern look and we moved on. The section fell in behind. We came upon M'nurr, working the FaT on the rock. It wasn't cutting near as deep as it had into the valley's soft bed. But we made do with what we could get out of it. We didn't know what was to come next.

In fact, nothing was to come of it. Jemmy held off. Something was going on overhead. We just weren't being told what. I'd get into the long version, but put it this way: Thunderchild had to take off after a Jemmy fleet arrived. Jemmy had been planning a major offensive to take that planet. That would've meant our annihilation. Except, at the same time, some bold Starfleet types had taken out a white processing station on our side of the wormhole. So Jemmy didn't have the supply lines to make the planet stick. We didn't know that at the time-- but then, if we'd known what we didn't know, we would've been a whole lot less calm about the situation.

* * *

Meantime, we held out. I ordered perimeter patrols three times a day. We did armed calisthenics every morning, broke out into a full training routine to keep our skills up. Before we knew it, Camp Khan Noonien Singh (we'd made the mistake of letting Corny pick the name, and he did so, after one of his old Eugenics Wars heroes) was blooming nicely. As camps go, it wasn't half bad. The bugs were killer-- they had these kinds of lice down there that would actually burrow under your skin. They gave Singh fits six ways from Sol, I can tell you that.

We sent up Snowmane and Rozinante once every couple days to broadcast from high atmosphere. Just to see if anyone was out there. And of course, there was no one. We couldn't figure out why.

In that time, a lot of things happened at the camp themselves, though. Herman Lange, from Delta, and Ashley Fitzgerald, from Echo, fell in love and started talking marriage. Marianne Leduc made a complete recovery, thanks to Tim Walters' nanoprobes. Dr. Singh started processing them, only to find out that the nanoprobes were processing his equipment. Tim managed to call them off after about a week of futile resistance. And we lost Robert Dalton while out on patrol, only to find him down a hidden cage, knit up in some giant trap-door spider's clutches. After we subdued the spider, we brought Dalton back to base, and he was back on patrol again --after as much ribbing as medical treatment-- in about a week's time.

Don Bluvid, David Emerson, and Lorelei Minor put together some kind of three-part harmony group, and they were tasked with keeping morale up between our two companies. Sure enough, these Starfleet minstrels of ours did their best-- although Rachel Pratt nearly took out Lorelei after rumours of Minor stealing Emerson from Pratt started to circulate.

And, of course, there was good old drunken revelry. They named the regiment pub Botany Bay, in memory of Khan's mighty starship of old. It was really nothing more than a replicator modified to bypass the restrictions on brewing synthehol beverages and a few wooden logs stuck into the ground. And, to be honest, Corny's accounts of Khan were suspect even among those of us who knew nothing of hundred-year old events. Sure enough, some wag --probably Ben Cohen, being Echo Company's resident prick-- dug up copy that said Botany Bay was little more than a garbage scow. Naturally, Corny took to fighting, and didn't stand a chance. Three days in sickbay for broken facial bones that the Doc couldn't set without using a surgical procedure.

We were down there a month and a half. In that time, not the slightest sign of Jemmy. If he was out there --and I personally think that he was-- he was keeping calm. It started to worry me. Every day I'd lead a patrol up to the highest peak, some twenty-five klicks, four hour trip. I made a point of bringing Ren with me every time. We'd talk most of the way up-- not in the usual way, mind you. I'd started to open up to her a little. Every day I'd get the same bunch from my company together and we'd make our way. I insisted that Marianne Leduc come with us, to get her strength back up. Her, myself, Renalla, Park Yoon Chow, Sholar, David Emerson, and Rachel Pratt. Sholar I brought along because his scope could see through rock and woods. And I wanted to know if Jemmy was sapping our whole position.

All the troops I brought were from Delta Company, because Delta was technically my company-- mine, my own, assigned to me. Tim Walters was in charge of Echo, on paper at least. Eight companies total from our regiment, all under Ronik's command. And I was one of four lead sergeants. Tim was just a buck sergeant-- we had eight of those, technically. Ren was Delta's. So, really, I was completely expendable. Or so I started thinking. Ren made it clear to me how much she cared about me. At one point on one patrol, when she'd snagged her heel on a root, Rachel Pratt dropped out to help her, being the company medic and all. Emerson ambled up to me with this look on his face.

"Permission to speak freely?" he practically whispered.

"Go ahead," I whispered back.

"You do know, don'tcha, Sarge?"

"Know what, Dave?"

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but the girl likes you." He indicated Ren with a nod of his head.

"She's a Betazoid, Dave. If she can't tell that I feel the same way, then I'm doing a better job of blocking her out of my mind than I give myself credit for, don't you think?"

Emerson got a wounded look on his face. "Yes, sir. Reckon so."

I patted him on the shoulder. "But thanks for the heads-up. Just want you to know that I'm real happy for you and Rachel-- whole staff is pleased to see so much love in wartime. Reminds us all of home."

"Uh, Sarge? Staff's mostly Vulcan, ain't they?"

"I'm not counting them," I told him with a wink. "They don't feel a damned thing."

Sholar broke in. "What are we waiting for? Don't we have fighting to do?" Sure enough, we did. Ren was up and walking again, so we moved on.

From the top of this climb --we'd refused to let Corny have anything to do with it, so we'd taken to calling it Delta Peak-- you could see everything there was to see. One time when we were up there, we watched Rozinante take off for high orbit. Perfectly clear day-- we followed her right up until she was a glimmer in orbit. We could see everything. Way I thought, we had to. Nothing was keeping us in one place, after all, except vigilance and the anticipation of a ticket home. Without Jemmy around, though, Buruta II wasn't so bad. I could've lived comfortably on that planet given access to an industrial replicator and a few other goodies. After all, with Ren around, and the company at my disposal... what else could a man ask for? Every day T-child didn't come back was a day closer to making this world my own. Buruta II (and its hellbugs) didn't just get into you. It was a place you got used to, after a while, like a pair of old boots you've walked around in long enough to make comfortable.

Speaking of which. Normally the walk up Delta Peak wasn't bad. It was the nattering that got on my nerves. I really had to concentrate to talk to Renalla --you know, the way Betazoids talk to each other. She'd shown me how after I gave in and let myself trust her. It took all the concentration I had. I didn't much object, though-- I had good soldiers around me. Couldn't have picked a finer bunch to fight and die with, by my experience.

But Rachel and Dave would get into it sometimes, and Marianne and Park would join in. Then Sholar would tell the lot of them to pipe down. One of them would appeal to me or to Renalla. Usually Renalla would marm them to keep down on patrol. It'd last a couple minutes. Then Marianne would prod Dave, or Rachel would re-state the argument differently. Anything, really, was fair game. The way the war was being fought. How Rachel and David were going to spend their leave time. Whether or not T-child was a smoking ruin on the far side of the planet by now.

The same topics buzzed through camp. There was actually a "day we get to go home" pool on a board over the replicator, off in Botany Bay. I myself picked stardate 51202. I don't know why. Okay, I do. We were the Two-oh-Second. It made sense, even if it wasn't particularly inspiring. But Renalla was a little more hopeful-- she'd picked 50999. We'd landed on 50902. We'd fought with Jemmy on 50915. And we didn't hear from T-child until 51101. When we did, they were all rush-rush. We wouldn't find out for some days why.

See, the whole war seemed to turn around the starbase right at the mouth of the wormhole, an old Spoonhead station that they'd used to oppress the Bajorans. Deep Space Nine was the lynchpin in the Federation's whole plan. It held the key to the door to the Gamma Quadrant. That key was named USS Defiant, NX-74205, captained by none other than the immortal Ben Sisko. And ol' Sisko was planning on taking his key and locking that door shut. The process was named Operation: Return. We were briefed to be ready for anything. As redshirts we were equally going to be at the ready for Security and of boarding operations. Anyone came aboard, we were to deal with them. If we had to fight for DS9 deck by deck, so we would.

But all this was provided that T-child made it through the fire in one piece. Sisko was calling in all the favours he could to get that station back. Rumours about a minefield and some other heroics filtered through the ranks-- but I told the troops to put less stock in the possibly-true and deal with the real, hard facts. We were going into battle. I didn't want any ghosts of Jemmy yet-to-come scaring the red shirts off their backs.

To be fair, the uniforms were pretty comfortable, but they were grey and black. A hell of a thing to be fighting for, to be sure. But the collars were at least the right colour. And you couldn't ask for a more durable garment, either. We ran, fight, bled, died in these things. We sweat, we froze, we slept, we lived. That uniform becomes a part of you after a while, like... like a second skin. Doesn't matter how much skin you're wearing if you're fighting Jemmy, though--- all he wants to do is blast or punch through it.

I think that T-child made a major error in not coming back sooner, but I never griped too hard to anyone. After all, redshirts answer to starboys. Not the other way around. Still, we could've used a bit more of a transition period from the wide-open fighting we'd done, back to confined spaces and hull breaches. Guess that would've been too much to ask for in wartime. After all, we weren't off on leave. It just felt like it for lack of quarry. Besides, T-child only wished she had the easy time we did on Buruta. I know this for a fact since I had a few late night, uh... discussions with a few of the engineers on this very topic. Lucky for me Rachel Pratt could keep a secret.

Still, we had more griping --mostly because of the close quarters and the shared bunks, and above all the lack of starlight overhead at night. Like I said, Buruta II sure got comfortable after a while. But orders were orders: we, along with Bravo and Charlie companies, were to be ready to board anything we were ordered to board. No horses. Just guts and glory.

The stardate was 51143. The place we were heading? Starbase Deep Space Nine.


	2. Deep Space Nine

"All right, folks-- listen up," the Captain began. "On the padds you have been handed are schematics and plans of the space station we call Starbase Deep Space Nine."

I was sitting next to Tim, with Ren on the other side of her, and M'Nurr, who was Tom's second, next to her. I noticed that Ren's eyes were watering.

'Problem?' I sent to her.

'I'm allergic to Caitians,' she sent back. I smiled.

The Captain continued. "Now, all of this is provided that we break through the cordon of starships the Dominion is going to put between us and the station. But DS9 is well-defended. So we need to be prepared for anything, and by 'we', I mean 'you'."

I don't know if you're familiar with DS9, but it's hideous. It looks vaguely like a bull's-eye from the top-down, but has three docking arms jutting straight up from around the ring, a hundred and twenty degrees apart. The rings themselves curve slightly inward. And it's this terrible shade of copper. One thing I like about Starfleet-made starbases is that they're silver. And there tend to be more open spaces inside. Which makes them a bitch to fight over since you can't exactly go door to door and deck to deck. I suppose that's what I liked about DS9. The layout was very conducive to fighting.

The Captain pointed out twelve blinking points within each ring. "These are the shield generation points on the station. In the event that we get a breach in the shielding, these will be your primary objectives, as will be the reactor core and the Operations deck. It's absolutely imperative that we prevent any attempts at sabotage. If the station goes, so does our best chance of holding the wormhole.

"Just to give you people a little background, this station was handed over to us after the Cardies decided they no longer felt compelled enough to keep the people of Bajor under their heel. Now they're back. And while Bajor is not a member of the Federation, and has signed a non-aggression pact with the Dominion, I can tell you that they're not about to let the Cardies keep the station. They want us back, mostly because we give them the best chance at their best destiny. So, Captain Sisko himself has asked me to pass along to you that it is absolutely imperative that no Bajoran civilians or station personnel be harmed. Even if the enemy uses them as sentient-shields, we are not --I repeat, we are not to fire upon them for any reason whatsoever.

"In addition, we may also encounter station personnel of various races. Ferengi, for instance. We believe there are as many as three Founders currently operating aboard the station. One of them is Station Security Chief Odo. His picture is available in the padd dossier, as are those of Major Kira Nerys, the station's Bajoran liaison officer, and Jake Sisko, Captain Sisko's own son."

"Sir!" Sergeant Frank Henley, of Able Company, drew the Captain's attention. "Begging your pardon, but how are we to tell that this changeling will look the part?"

"I have Captain Sisko's assurance that Constable Odo is a trusted and valued member of the Bajoran security force."

"And supposing the Captain's assurances are wrong, sir?"

"In such a situation, Sergeant, I would imagine that you would never have the opportunity to find out. Logic suggests that the Founders aboard the station will be evacuated immediately. Our force is too large for their infiltration to work. And, of course, before and after the operation, all surviving members of the assault force will be checked for infiltration."

I liked that. All "surviving" members. Slipped in so casually that the green-blooded bastard didn't even catch us flinching. But what did you expect from a room full of pointy ears. Our regiment was the only one composed mostly of humans. That, of course, made us the first ones in. Logic dictated that the greater good be served by the lesser forms. Of course, if Jemmy came stomping in, him and the other pointy-eared ones that came with him would be the only solids tolerated.

We didn't know what happened to the races under the Dominion. Rumours spread like wildfire. They were just a slightly less subtle Federation-- at least they told you that they came to rule. They liquidated all those solids they found, and the iron fist of the Jem'Hadar pounded flat countless worlds in the process of doing their gods' bidding. And all points in between, sometimes several points in the same conversation. No one had reported what happened behind Dominion lines, outside of prisoner-of-war camps. And those were mostly on barren, isolated rocks floating out in some belt or around some equally barren planet. Jemmy was good with prison camps. Death camps didn't seem that much further beyond him.

The briefing went on forever. Felt like they had to walk us through every room. Provided the T-child made it through the fire, and that became a bigger if with every passing minute, we were to be the first ones aboard DS9. Our objective was to take and hold the Promenade, Ops deck, and upper habitat ring. Which made sense. They didn't want to risk Vulcans on the uppermost decks. And, you know, I could've respected that, if they'd gone and made it plain. Way I saw it, T'Lanis was the last Vulcan with any sense of anything beyond self-preservation--- and look what she got for it. I know it isn't real encouraged to talk that way about our closest allies and all. But so it goes.

* * *

Lots had changed since we went down to Buruta II. So much can change in the space of a week, a month, a day, in wartime. The Klingons were back onside with us, the Cardies were now holding the Dominion's only Alpha Quadrant toehold. Some classified minefield was keeping Jemmy from using his only route home. News of this new strain of tougher Jemmy, called "Alphas" because they were bred in this quadrant, started to spread. There were a hundred other stories--- the Tholians were giving their web technology to the Dominion in an exchange of some sort. The Tal Shi'ar were losing control of the Romulan Star Empire, and the people were marching in the streets of Romulus, demanding peace. There was also rumoured to be infiltration of every major institution-- the Federation Council, the Klingon High Council, Starfleet Command, the Cardassian Union. Everyone was looking askance at everyone else, fearful of shapeshifters in our midst.

And everyone had an opinion-- on the conduct of the war. Some said we should just eradicate DS9-- others, the whole Bajoran system. Some said we should be negotiating for peace, though most knew better, that the only peace Jemmy believed in was the silent presence of one genocide or another. Some said we should focus on taking Jemmy out of the fight--- others, on the Cardies.

Everyone was on edge. At least starboys could filter it out into their work. Us, we had to keep in shape. That meant holo-simulated battles, hour after hour, day after day. DS9, level four, or promenade deck, or the very Ops quarters itself. Someone, I think it was Ashley Fitzgerald over in Echo, had actually been in Captain Sisko's DS9 office. She said it was inaccurately portrayed in the simulation. The Captain had some antiquated spherical object or another on his desk, possibly a model of Europa.

This, naturally, sent Kornilov searching the archives. He finally found one picture or another, and cross-referenced from the historical archives. It was something called a baseball, central object in the game of the same name.

I took this to heart. After all, I figured if Captain Sisko was so good as to provide me with motivation for my troops... well, the least I could do was repay him by getting him his dugout back.

It was Corny that pointed out how DS9's Ops deck rose in the centre like a pitcher's mound. That gave Ren and myself an idea, which we put past Tim. Tim didn't like it-- he preferred his analysis done in compound, rational fashion. But we needed to sell it.

We picked the points on the habitat ring that formed major intersections between that ring and the next ring out. These became first, second, and third base-- our beam-in points. Delta was to base at first, Echo at third. Ten troops each . An irregular formation, led by Renalla, of the other twelve redshirts from Delta and Echo, would drop in at second base. We would then sweep towards each other, and up to the Promenade ring-- the infield. Our main objective was the pitcher's mound, in Ops. And, if you're wondering, home base was technically the T-child.

Going into battle was hard. We knew there was a fight going on, but we couldn't fire a shot in anger until we got off the ship. It was also really frustrating to meet for what could be the last time with Ren and Tim before I went into Troop Transporter Room One.

"So, this could be it," I started.

"Could always be it, boss," Walters reminded me. "That's the name of the game. Kinda looking forward to it, to be honest. It's been a long time since the Fed won a damn thing. I'm tired of retreatin'." He looked at me, sombre. The corridor lighting gave his pallid skin a dazzling sheen. "Some day this war's gonna end," he stated plainly, and walked away.

Ren and I looked at each other. What we said to each other, we didn't do with voices, and I'm not going to try to repeat for you all here. Figure you can put it together for yourself. Like I said, I don't share how I feel with just anyone. Of course, I can tell you that I also reminded her to let me know, the head way, where she was and what was going on the moment she beamed in. If she was pinned--- orders be damned. I had to protect her.

* * *

I assembled my squad in One. In addition to myself, Sholar had stepped up to serve as second for the squad. Leduc, Pratt, Bluvid, Dalton, Franks, Heath, and Park were with us. It was good to see Marianne Leduc back in the uniform, ready to go. In addition, Dr. Singh and a small medical detachment were going to accompany us to first base. They knew the way to the station's medical office, on the Promenade, and since we were going that way, regiment HQ decided we should take them to base. After all, if Two-Oh-Second was going to be called upon to set up shop until the regular station crews returned, least we could do is get the good digs for our people.

Sholar was, as usual, itching to get into it. But his itching was also irritation: he'd been forced to not only carry the scope rifle, but also a standard-issue phaser. He didn't like it, but there was no way we were going into battle without everyone carrying a phaser. Everyone fights in the redshirts. No exceptions-- not even the fancy officers. Under Starfleet regulations, medical personnel were not to carry any weapons, but you'd better believe that Singh and his staff were all packing something along, even if it was just a scalpel zealously oversharpened. And David Emerson refused to let me take Rachel Pratt station-side without a sidearm. "Court-martial me if you want, sir," he said, "but I refuse to let my girlfriend go into combat unarmed. I'm sure you can understand." He knew I could. But Ren was tougher than any other Betazoid I'd met. A few more like her back home could've held off Jemmy singlehanded. Still, Rachel was wiry and capable of taking whatever came, phaser or not. I just couldn't fool myself into thinking her expendable because she wasn't the only medic we were taking along.

If you've never been in a troop transporter room, you've got no idea how rough a go we had of it. The room itself is like any other transporter room you've ever seen, with two major exceptions. First off, the transport chambers were different-- each one big enough for a Mk I humanoid and various kit, and stacked six by six. Each one had a small set of walls that divided it off from everyone else around it. This was for signal enhancement: your average redshirt carries more gear for a planet-side encampment, for example. But these partitions give you roughly the same room as a sonic shower. Though it felt more like a torpedo casing-- and we all knew the only reason they stuffed you into one of those. They could give more room, say for transporting down an industrial replicator or a collapsible shelter unit, in a two by two or four by four grid. I figure it was big enough that you could transport out a whole shuttlecraft if you felt the need. Of course, the problem was moreso getting something that big into the chamber, rather than out. But the walls went up around it, whatever it was that was going out.

These walls are as much to keep you from getting tossed around as they are to get you focused on the drop. After all, you get so anxious waiting to get out of there that the whine of the beam kicking in is a relief. Not only that, but you come out fighting that way. And they're lined with bars for grabbing onto if the ship gets rocked. There's the other reason for these walls, right there: each one is capable of functioning as a self-contained transporter system. So if the ship's going down over a planet, you still get out in one piece. Even if the warp core's just gone and there's nothing between you and the sweet hereafter but the blue beam out. That, and if there is any peripheral blowback, like say the Heisenberg compensators short out and the deck breaches, you still get out. The main transporters might be offline, but the troop transporters get one shot to put you to the last known co-ordinates for your beamout. And if you're not in range, then it's your big chance to get away from it all.

Anyway. We were all lined up, and the partitions raised. The operations guy, some smug starboy who couldn't take his eyes off Marianne, set us all in place. Sholar didn't take too kindly to being the first one into setup. After all, there were only eight of us. We could've transported all from the same room, but orders were specific on that: since we were going to DS9 itself, T-child was going to have to be one of the first ships through that line. After all, we wanted this one to be ours. There were other units on standby, trained on our mission to the letter. We didn't want any one of them taking the glory of being the first of Starfleet to see the inside of DS9. A liberated DS9, that is to say.

I ordered everyone to keep their comm channels open. There was nervous chatter back and forth. I made sure I ran through all the points of order and the rules of engagement, top down, again. I didn't want anything to go wrong.

"Singh to Dixon," the signal broke in on me.

"Dixon, you in, Doc?"

"We are, Sergeant. All ten of us. We're going to beam in right next to you."

"From where?"

"Troop Transporter Room... One?"

"The same room we're in."

"Oh, that's you in there. Yes. The same."

"All right. See you station-side."

"I look forward to buying you a drink on the Promenade, Sergeant. Singh out."

"Out." I went back to my rules. The ship shook, but the light in the case didn't even flicker. We could hear the noises, but we couldn't do a damned thing. Someone --I think it was Heath-- started screaming, and I had to yell back for a while, take control. The ship shook a few more times. I pulled a padd out of the kit I'd brought into the chamber, and linked up to the ship's computer. I pulled up a limited tactical display to find out where we were. T-child was busy with two other Klingon ships --nobody had told me there'd be Klingon ships-- fighting through a hole that seemed to be narrowing with each passing moment. I panned around and saw a blip, centre of the screen, beyond any other ship, on its way through the enemy formation. NX-74205, it read. I knew that number. It was Defiant. She was clear through, and on her way to DS9. No holding Sisko back, it seemed.

The tactical display was an absolute mess, and it made my eyes hurt to try to follow everything. I set it aside and went back to barking at the troops. Sholar wasn't much of a second. In fact, he was just making things worse with his muttering.

"Sholar, control yourself," I said. "Remember who you are."

"I'm the only blue-skin in this transport chamber!"

"You're also the only blue-skin that's going to be demoted if you keep it up."

"What's it to you, anyway? Pink-skins don't know ANYTHING about how to fight a war! That's why we're losing!"

"That's treason-talk, mister! Leduc!"

"Sir!" came Marianne's quick reply.

"You're squad second. Until Delta gets put back together, you've got my back."

"Sir." She didn't sound very confident. Hell, I'd made second in a similar fashion-- only, it'd been a casualty rather than an error in judgment. I hadn't earned this position-- I just had the rank thrust on me, by virtue of everyone who was qualified for it walking into a Jemmy bullet, or mine, or sometimes both.

I checked the padd again. T-child was clear, with four Klingon ships and the USS Tripoli visible around her. I could also see the USS Venture on the edge of the screen. Our heading was listed as the co-ordinates for DS9. Estimated time of arrival was 2:39.

"THREE MINUTES!" the transporter chief bellowed to us along the commlink. Everyone went quiet. We'd made it through the fight. Not to be said about the Majestic, for example. We lost her and a handful of other ships that day. Don't think I'd leave them out. Seems unfair to remember this without remembering those who died.

"TWO MINUTES!" Everyone was still quiet. It was Marianne Leduc who broke the quiet.

"Sir?" she said-- and I noticed from the beep that this was a direct channel.

"Go ahead, Leduc," I said.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Let's hear it."

"If you could, sir, please, call me Marianne. I just wanted you to know... well..." The line went quiet, only to be broken by the sixty-second warning.

"Whatever it is, just think of it like I already know." The fight on Buruta II had made her quieter, more reserved. I think it did more than just wound her. I think it'd broken her heart. I'll never forget the look on her face when she apologized to me for having taken the wound. It'd shaken me pretty bad. "I'm proud to have you as my squad second, Marianne."

I could hear her laugh--- just a little laugh, enough to tell me that she was smiling. "Thank you, sir. I'm just so glad to be going into the fight with you. I feel like that's where I belong."

"In the fight?"

"Yes, sir. Some folks are made for a nice little pasture on some green planet. Me... I'm not that kindof girl, sir. And I just wanted you to know that I'd follow you anywhere. Even death itself."

Seeing as I was mostly convinced that was precisely where we were headed, I didn't know what to say for a moment. Fortunately, the uncomfortable silence was broken by a thirty-second warning. "Thank you for speaking freely with me. I'll see you station-side."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

I went back to that squad comm wavelength. "All right. STARFLEET! PLAY BALL!" That was the appointed signal I'd chosen --on Corny's recommendation, considering the tactical theme we were working-- for us to check rifles. Safety off, they were to signal 'clear' to me preceded by their name. That was our last chance. Then we beamed in. To what, no one could tell us.

"Heath-- clear!"

"Park-- clear!"

"Leduc-- uh, clear!"

"Sholar-- clear!"

"Bluvid-- clear!"

"Dalton-- clear!"

"Franks-- clear!"

"Pratt-- ready!" After all, she didn't have a weapon.

"Energize!"

* * *

The blue. Then we were on point. Singh's medical staff appeared a moment later, down the corridor behind us. Immediately we drew our weapons--- right before us were two Cardassians, only neither of them was fighting. I signalled Marianne forward, and she checked them out.

"MEDIC!" she yelled. Rachel stepped forward, but Singh's team flooded past us and into position around them. Marianne tried to pull the Cardie in uniform off of the wounded girl, but he threw her against a bulkhead. I saw Sholar raising his rifle.

"HOLD! He's not armed!" I saw the markings on his breastplate. Rank of Gul, equivalent to our Captain. Whoever he was, he was important. "Bluvid! Dalton! Sholar! Take this man into custody-- Leduc! Park! Pratt! Escort our medical personnel to the Promenade! Franks! Heath! On ME!"

Immediately I started to panic. I couldn't feel Renalla. I looked around, anxious to see her, though I don't know why I tried to find her with my eyes. Then it hit me-- a wave of anxiety, followed by immense relief. She'd found me. Right on second base. She'd split the Echo personnel in one direction, and was headed herself with the rest of Delta towards us-- and we were to arc around the habitat ring, double-time.

"Franks-- tricorder."

"Yes, sir!"

"Scan for life signs, this corridor only. Double-check for changelings."

"Right away."

"Heath-- watch that corridor. Anyone comes in, you give the countersign. Do NOT fire until fired upon."

"Aye, sir."

"Franks? Anything?"

"Reading four Bajorans that direction, no life signs save our personnel in that direction, and... sir, someone's coming your direction."

"I know. It's the rest of Delta." I turned and looked down the corridor, anxious for a sight of black and silver. I was satisfied within a moment. "Fire on high!"

"Fire down below!" came the countersign like a breath of fresh air. "All clear this corridor!"

"Roger. We're clear here, too. One casualty-- a Cardassian."

"Anyone worth mentioning?"

"That's enough, Mr. Lange. She was just a girl."

"Just a Cardie girl," Lange corrected me.

Renalla broke past Emerson and Lange, a little too eagerly. We both knew what the other was thinking. Emerson cut in. "Sir? Rachel."

"I sent her with the medical detail to the Promenade. Hayden, Heath, Minor-- with me. Let's go secure the infield. The rest of you-- follow Corporal Yan and link up with Echo."

"Sir," David Emerson repeated.

"All right. Minor-- trade places with Emerson." I understood his concern in ways he couldn't perceive. "Let's roll."

Now, I don't know if you're familiar at all with the Promenade deck of DS9. It's hideous if you're not accustomed to Cardie architecture. It looks like the outside of the station. After a while, you get used to the serpentine engravings, the jutting overheads, the slinky railings, the dark and rounded columns holding up the fishbowl windows reflecting outwards on space beyond. I stepped out onto the lower level, and walked straight forward along a broad walkway that was dominated by a catwalk overhead. The shops along the way were mostly shut, for fear of fighting. On my left, the outer side, under the walkway were entrances to a Bajoran temple, a tailor's shop, on my right a bar of some kind. Overhead, I could see Marianne leaning over the railing, giving a signal over her shoulder to the redshirts with her, perched overhead like a very depiction of liberty itself. I could almost see the Federation flag aloft behind her.

But around me, Emerson, Heath and Hayden had fanned out into a rough diamond formation, with Heath bringing up the rear. Before us on the lower level was a contingent of troops, some in grey, others in tan, and one or two in red. One of them bore a striking resemblance to Renalla as she stepped forward, but the nose and the earring gave her away. I recognized Major Kira Nerys.

"Major Kira, I presume."

"The Dominion left an hour ago. I assembled everyone here. Have they sabotaged anything?"

"I don't know, myself. Are there any wounded among your people?"

"No, they left us alone. We'd have to check the infirmary to see if there was anything else."

"There was one-- we found her on the habitat deck. A Cardassian girl."

"A what?" she said, stepping forward.

"A Cardassian girl. She took a phaser hit to the chest."

"Describe her to me." The Major was insistent.

"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I didn't get a good look at her. Appeared to be a civilian. Had a Gul with her-- we took him into custody."

"I hope to the Prophets that you're wrong, Sergeant." I didn't know what she meant then. I wouldn't find out until some time later.

"We're on our way up to the Ops deck now, ma'am. Request permission for you to lead the way."

"I don't see any harm in that," she said. "But if we can stop by the infirmary first."

I gave a look over my shoulder at Emerson, and saw him get a little excited at the mention of the infirmary. "No harm there, ma'am. Emerson, Heath-- escort the major." Major Kira made her way past me, and I turned to Hayden. "Julia."

"Sir."

"Go up and relieve Leduc."

"Aye, sir." Hayden took to one of the spiral staircases and along the upper level. I nodded at the Bajoran troops before me, and walked around them. Marianne came bounding along, with Lange and Dalton.

"Sir?" Marianne inquired.

"Report," I demanded.

"Echo company is coming in from the habitat ring, sir. They're taking up station all along the Promenade, clearing each room."

"Very well. Lange, Dalton-- stay here and see if you can't coax a few of these Bajoran folks into helping you get the shop owners and station personnel out of hiding. DS9 is open for business again."

"Yes, sir."

"Leduc-- come with me."

We made our way to the infirmary, where I saw three sights, one out of either side. On one side of me, Rachel Pratt and David Emerson were checking each other over for bumps and bruises. Renalla was coming towards me on the lower Promenade. But before me, centre of my vision, was a heartbreaking scene. I saw Major Kira flanked by Starfleet and Bajoran medical personnel on either side. She had her head down on the breast of the Bajoran girl --I would never mistake her for a Cardie again-- and she was holding the dead girl's hand. I didn't know quite how to feel right there. I was kind of afraid to, if you want the honest truth. Didn't want Renalla to find anything out. But I heard Marianne sobbing to my left. I stepped forward, Renalla and Marianne doing likewise.

"Major," I said. Dr. Singh showed a piteous expression on his face, and then Major Kira straightened up. For a moment, the look on her face was pure, darkest anguish. Then, with a momentary shake of the head, it was gone, and she blinked until her duty face had returned.

"Sergeant. I apologize."

"No need. This is my company second, Renalla Yan. She has a report on the Promenade deck."

"We have secured both levels, Major. Our troops are turning things over to your forces now."

"Very well. The security post?"

"Empty, ma'am. Save for two dead Jem'Hadar."

"The Constable?"

"He wasn't there, ma'am."

Marianne spoke up. "I believe we detected him, ma'am. In the habitat ring. But we'd been trained to know where his quarters are located-- we just hope it was him in there."

"I don't doubt it," the Major said. Her voice had a touch of rage to it, which I attributed to the situation. "Sergeant-- if I may, can I have a moment before we proceed to Ops?"

"Yes, ma'am. I apologize for intruding."

"Don't. I should be used to it by now... so many years fighting the Cardassians and now this."

"Used to what, ma'am?" The question was mine, but Renalla said it.

After a moment, the Major replied.

"Used to saying goodbye."

We stood outside for a moment, with the infirmary doors closed behind us. Tricorder scans had shown no life signs on the ops deck. But we couldn't risk anything. I'd spoken to Tim Walters, who had set up for regiment HQ in an empty shop just down and across from the security office. A few Ferengi had shuttled past, one in a Bajoran uniform, skittishly walking in that Ferengi manner. Now that I think of it, the reason they stand out in my memory was because they were looking at all of us, taking it all in after a brief occupation. I don't doubt that they were happy to see us, but I suppose any Ferengi has some dark tale that he'd rather not share with just anyone. Most of the other shop owners were Bajoran.

Major Kira emerged then from the infirmary, the very picture of duty. "Sergeant," she said to me, "your regimental commander?"

"Lieutenant Ronik, ma'am."

"All right. I'll... be sure to put in a good word for you and your section. You've done a fine job."

"Thank you, ma'am. Permission to speak freely?"

"Of course."

"Reckon you'd best hold off until our work is done. We've still got to clear the Ops deck."

"Understood." She drew her disruptor and indicated the space before us with her free hand. "Lead on. I'll just get a few of mine to come along."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Ten seconds later, we were heading up the stairs --we'd trained that way in case the lifts were sabotaged-- to the Ops deck. I stepped out first, Marianne and Renalla following. The room itself, if you've never seen it, arched towards the centre, where a main table faced a giant viewing screen. There was a transporter pad to the left, and a lift entry just a little past that. The Captain's office dominated the space under the viewscreen, a pair of doors done up in a typically hideous Cardassian lattice work, sealed shut. Major Kira stepped out, disruptor in hand, and made her way naturally around the workstation level. I followed her, with Renalla and one of the Bajoran troops accompanying me. I signalled to Marianne, who fanned out with the other two Bajorans along the other side. The deck was empty.

The Major entered the office, and I followed closely. She looked once to her right, then to her left, and then holstered her disruptor. "Well," she said. "It's good to be back." I noticed that she stretched out her left hand and took the baseball into it.

"If you like, I can get Lieutenant Ronik on up here now, ma'am."

"No, that's all right. Sergeant-- your name?"

"Sean Dixon, ma'am. Section commander, Fourth of the First, Two Hundred and Second Marine Division."

"Sergeant Dixon. Has there been any word from Defiant?"

"Yes, ma'am, they were heading back to rendez-vous with--- I---- what the hell---?"

At that exact moment, in the window over her shoulder broke what looked to me like a sudden nebula formation-- but I knew nebulae didn't happen instantly. It appeared as though a great pair of hands made of cloud had suddenly appeared, one cupping something into its yellow palm and delivering it forth with blue fingers of smoke, while the other, purple, masked the revelation of what lay within for just long enough to draw my attention.

"The Celestial Temple of the Prophets. You might call it a stable wormhole."

"I'd heard of it, ma'am, but I hadn't seen it before. Wasn't there... a minefield?"

"The Dominion destroyed it."

"So what's coming through?"

"Going through, you mean."

"I can't tell one way or another."

"A small Klingon force on their way to the Gamma Quadrant. I saw it on the console when I came in." She pointed to the desk. "They're going through just to make sure the way is shut."

"I see. Thank you, ma'am. I apologize if I offended you."

"Not at all. It takes your breath away, the first time. Happens to everyone." She sat in the chair. No, that'd be inaccurate. She sank into it, slowly, with a grin rapidly spreading across her face. "I like to steal a sit in this chair any chance I get," she explained.

"I understand, ma'am. Is there anything else?"

"No. Just... the thanks of a grateful Bajor."

"Yes, ma'am. Proud to serve. Thank you, ma'am."

I stepped out of the office, crossed down the stairs, and back up to where Marianne and Renalla stood. Bajoran duty officers had already resumed most of the station functions, and were working to bring the weapons array back online. "Well, I think it's time we made a discrete exit," I said to the two of them when I reached them. Marianne smiled, and Renalla tucked her chin into her chest and followed me into the lift. We were on the Promenade moments later.

* * *

I think we were there the better part of a week. Starfleet cancelled any major combat, supposably to retrofit and repair the ships involved in the battle. Really, I think they just wanted to let the morale effects of re-taking DS9, our first real tangible victory since the War had begun, turn around public opinion and get people back behind the Fleet-- where they belonged.

I can't tell you what kind of ingratitude I take it as when I don't see someone giving full recognition to what the uniform stands for. Sure, it's changed a lot over time, tailored to suit whatever generation was wearing it. But it's always stood for the things Starfleet has stood for, the things redshirts like us and the starboys have bled and died to uphold: the same things the Federation has meant for hundreds of years, across hundreds of worlds, to trillions of people. So when civilians or military people alike start getting their lips going --provided that they have lips-- about the Fed, or the War, or the Fleet, it gets my back up in a hurry.

Which is kind of what happened one night in a replimat. Some Ferengi barkeep got uppity, and next thing I know, half of Delta is pulling me off of some guy. I was confined to quarters on the T-child for a week. Ren spent a lot of that time looking after me. She was acting sergeant to Delta, and explained that she expected to see the kind of fire, passion and drive that I embodied that night every time we went into battle. It was good spin, and little besides. She knew I felt terrible for having gone the round with this guy. I didn't even catch his name. Not that it matters.

"Another two days of this," I told her after the first five stardates had passed.

"Don't worry about it," she replied. "We're doing all we can. Corporal Leduc is really stepping things up."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," I said.

"She's crazy about you, Sean."

"I don't doubt that, either. She really has no reason to be."

"Why not? You have a lot to offer."

"Not to a subordinate. Not in wartime. It's just not right."

"Oh. I see." She looked at me, half-heartedly. I could tell she was anxious. But I didn't know what to say.

"What would you have me do? I don't want to hurt anyone."

"But you will anyway. You can't reach out to someone without possibly holding onto them too tight."

"I'm not so sure," I said. "I mean... if something happens to me --and I know it will-- what then?"

"What about it?"

"If I had a girl back home, it wouldn't matter. I could talk to her safe in the knowledge that she safe."

"Or safe in the knowledge that all the glory will be yours?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're living in the twentieth century, Sean. The idea that men were the only ones who can die in a war should've gone to its grave along with the six hundred million dead in the Third World War. Or the Eugenics War. You can't escape how you feel. It stays with you. And if you feel the same way about Marianne... I'm not going to stand in your way."

"I--- what?"

"I'm your second and I'm also your friend. But I need you to know that I admire you. And that I need to know if I mean more to you than just that."

"Than just an officer? Of course. I can't tell you how much you mean to me."

"But---" She looked at me, exasperated, and put down her drink. I leaned forward, expecting the worst. "This would be easier if you were a Betazoid. We wouldn't have to do all this damned talking."

"So tell me. I know how."

"I'm afraid of overwhelming you."

"You feel that strongly?"

"Yes---- no. I mean, what I do feel is one thing, but for me to just give it to you... I'd want to make sure I wasn't, you know, controlling your mind."

"Is that what you're afraid of?"

"Yes. I'm worried that I'm trying too hard to get you to notice."

"Suppose I have been a little obtuse. I'm sorry-- I just... I don't feel anything the way I used to."

"Before what, exactly?"

"I don't want to get into it. You don't want me to get into it."

"How do you know I don't?"

"Because if I did, your idea of me would shatter, and---"

"What makes you so sure my idea of you is what you think it is?"

"Because I've seen it. In the way you look at me, talk to me, talk about me."

"You'd be surprised. We see both sides of these things, you know. I admire you for the person you are just as much as I fear you for the person you could be. My thinking is not as two-dimensional as you seem to believe."

"But I don't want you to get attached to me," I said.

"It's too late. People won't leave you alone if you don't completely isolate yourself-- and even if you did, you'd be left with nothing but fear. Don't you think I know you're afraid?"

"Of course I am. We all are. But that's no excuse."

"Excuse for what?"

"I don't know. I suppose part of me wants to believe that there's a life to be lived when this bloody war is over. And if all the people I care about all come from this war... I'll never really leave."

"We won't leave each other behind," she said with a smile. "You've never abandoned me. I won't abandon you-- not now, or ever." And she reached out for my hand, and took it into hers. "Please tell me that you feel the same way I do."

I looked into her eyes, radiant as they were in the light of the room. And I didn't know what to say. "I need someone who can save me from this, Renalla," I said. "And maybe it's going to be you."

"I want it to be," she replied. "If you'll let me."

"I can't be certain of how I feel. I guess I just need you to know that."

"I don't think any of us can be, Sean."

"No, I mean, I don't think I'll ever be able to give you the kind of... connection that I think you need."

"I don't understand."

"You know how I'm not exactly forthcoming with my feelings."

"Yeah."

I shrugged. "What makes you think I'd change?"

"I don't think you would."

"Won't you get annoyed with that, though? I think you are already. I can't help it, though. Where I come from, we don't get by on a lot of talk. We do our work, we tend to our fields and we go home to watch the news. I'm a simple man, Renalla. I'm not the type to get worked up talking. As you've noticed. I know you're bored with me already."

"I just really want to believe there can be something more."

"What I guess I need you to know is that I'm content with you as my friend. I can't help but feel like I'd only end up hurting you. And that I'd go on hurting you."

"I know," was all she said. "I suppose I just needed to hear it."

She left shortly thereafter. We talked a little more, but things were left on an awkward note. She knew how I felt, and yet, she didn't want to acknowledge it. Thinking back on it now, I didn't really love her. I was just a desperate man in a community of desperate people. And the kind of love she was looking for, I couldn't offer. Betazoids have all kinds of truly strange traditions regarding love. Because they feel so deeply, they commit deeply-- often for life, on the first try. That's just never been my style. Then again, neither's been love.

* * *

Two days later, I walked out to the T-child's main infantry training holodeck, where I made an inspection and a brief speech. Delta was in better shape than before. I knew Renalla and Marianne had taken good care of the company. Everything seemed a little brighter, everyone seemed to have a little less of a chip on their shoulders.

See, about that time, the Federation stopped fighting a containment battle ---the fight they hoped not to lose--- and started fighting the fight they hoped to win. Nothing short of total victory would be satisfactory any longer. And we all recognized that the war aims had changed, and that there was no going back.

About the same time as our perceptions of the war changed, my way of fighting it was about to change. Renalla had been recommended for NCO training, and would stay on DS9 to engage in training. We were to be assigned a new R-5 for our two companies, though so far nobody knew anything beyond that Ren was leaving.

I didn't even say goodbye to her. Felt it was inappropriate. There was a big send-off for her at the station, one bar or another filled with Delta and Echo troops looking for a few good drinks. I showed up, made a customary appearance, really. Renalla saw me, but she didn't say, or send, anything. I know I broke her heart. But I was getting briefed on our next mission by Lieutenant Ronik that night. My duty was to the section. And that was where my heart had to be.

I had a hard choice to make, in picking a second. There were a lot of excellent choices for Corporal but I whittled them down. Sholar was a little overzealous and didn't have the subtleties of command down well enough. Park was committed, but I couldn't see him in a command role. Dalton, Franks, and Bluvid were all too strong in their tendency to swing back and forth between fighting spirit and total panic. Emerson was too worried about Pratt. Heath was usually too stoned, Lott too intense, Lange was more prejudiced than Starfleet liked to see in its NCOs, and Lawrence kept to himself too much.

This left me with Minor, McFarlane, Hayden, Leduc and Pratt. Darren Minor was a good officer candidate, if you didn't include his tendency to share his opinions a little too actively. Most of his combat experience was in one barroom brawl or another. It'd been good to know he had my back that night, but he was an anachronism. That standard of masculinity died in the Third World War.

And Joey McFarlane was a good soldier, but she didn't have the moral convictions for command. The only things I knew about her were how she was with a phaser rifle, and how she was in bed. And even then, not through any experience of my own. Not like she hadn't offered.

Which was actually the same problem I had with Rachel Pratt and Marianne Leduc. Both of them were very capable officers. But promoting either of them would get me in trouble. Pratt would be both medic and second. That didn't work for me. And Marianne... I mean, she could certainly fight, and command. She was probably the most qualified person for the position and she'd proven it on DS9. But her feelings for me made her a liability. Don't get me wrong, I cared about her and everyone under my command as a fellow citizen-soldier of the Federation. But I needed some space. Renalla had taught me that lesson. Hell, for a while there I'd thought of asking Tim Walters for a trade. I knew Aaron Binyamin in his company would've been a perfect fit for Delta as a second. But I'd already broken enough hearts for the time.

That still left Julia Hayden. She'd proven herself at DS9 just as much as Marianne, and she'd held a fire point with Bluvid and Ashley Fitzgerald from Echo, back on Buruta II. I'd been really impressed with her performance in drill, and in her fighting spirit. And, as well, she didn't seem to have many feelings at all, save those that ran before her, to Starfleet and to God.

That was the one thing I didn't like about her. She was very devoutly religious. Starfleet didn't outright ban explicit practice of religion. Abdul Al-El, over in Echo, for example, was also very religious. But he didn't seem to have that same missionary spirit. Julia seemed to see the war as a battle against those false gods, the Founders, and the devil's soldiers in bony uniforms.

I couldn't decide, so I brought the matter to Tim.

"Well," he said, "both of 'em are really good soldiers. Both of 'em are human, both of 'em are female, and they're just about equal, or better, against any other corporal I can think of."

"So what are you telling me?"

"It's a judgment call. Are you more or less comfortable, and if so, with which one?"

"It's really just a question of style. Hayden thinks in terms of offensive-defensive, grab-and-hold. But Leduc's out for the big victory, death or glory."

"And the way the war's shifted, Hayden seems to be the right choice for six months ago."

"Reckon so."

"But then, we're not here to fight the war. We're here to win it. And you need to think on company scale."

"That's about right."

"So... sounds to me like you've got to go with Hayden."

"Hayden? How do you figure?"

"Because for some reason, you're not arguing nearly as effectively for Leduc. And your decision makes itself."

"Don't suppose I could talk you into lending me Aaron Binyamin."

"Hell no! Who's got my back, then?"

"M'Nurr?"

"Too busy off with her tech-toys. I should never have made her second, but then, I have no solid reason to demote her. So Binyamin acts the part."

"Don't you need someone who'll do more than just act the part?" I asked.

"Suppose I do. Don't you?"

And that was what settled it. Corporal Julia Hayden took her position directly behind me in the parade formation we took down the Promenade on our way out to the T-child. We hadn't been given a specific assignment quite yet. T-child had been added to the Seventh Fleet.

* * *

We were to come in on support of the other half of the Two-Oh-Second. After all, we were just the First Battalion. There were three others, all on Kalandra, fighting a long, hard land war. The Third Battalion was in reserve, and had been our reserve for DS9. Now both battalions were heading back to Kalandra, to finish the fight. Second Battalion --with its all-Vulcan sections-- was to be put into reserve. They'd taken some of the hardest fighting on Kalandra. And now they needed the break. Not to imply that First Battalion didn't, of course. We'd just had a week off. And that was supposed to be sufficient.

Third had come in to back our play aboard USS Sutherland, and was going out the same way. Someone upper-up had managed to coax Seventh Fleet into letting Sutherland bring along Merrimac, one of Sutherland's sister ships. So T-child was going to arrive in style, with two Nebula-classers as escort. I always liked making a big entrance.

Kalandra was the only planet in the system, class L. It was simply known as the Kalandra system, but it just so happened to be the middle of nowhere between the Rigel system and one Cardie system or another. And that made it strategic.

That made it a place we had to go, to win, and to hold. Every world that wasn't theirs was another step closer to victory. And that was all that counted now.

Kalandra was itself a messy planet to call home. And we were going to for the next six months, though we didn't know it yet. Nobody told us that Jemmy held half the planet, after all. Or that it was all barren rock and stagnant water. Regulations were very specific about beam-down: no flora, no fauna, no bacteria, no nothing that wasn't completely decontaminated.

Which begs the question, why not simply phaser Jemmy's side of the planet? The short answer: Jemmy already had. See, there'd been a Federation archaeological colony on Continent C. We had such a romantic way of dealing with this particular planet. Kalandra C had seen thirty thousand dead, mostly scientists, as well as the destruction of USS Hiryu, when it had raced to the rescue not realizing that Cardie ships were flanking her all the way to target.

So we had quite a few dead to avenge. To say nothing of the millions more if Kalandra saw a Jemmy starbase floating overhead. It was bad enough they'd put down a forward stockade position right in what we'd all taken (after Corny's lead) to referring to as Jemmygrad.

Jemmygrad was located on a lake. Most of it was ruins, but the citadel was intact. Jemmy had set up a starport on the far southern side of town, around what our scientists' reports had taken to referring to as the ruins of either artisan shops or residences. There were larger houses, probably for the richer folk, down near the shoreline, as well as a large coliseum that Jemmy had fortified as an industrial replicator complex.

Spoony had done his bit, too. The central administrative district --as our reports called it, courthouse, city hall, those sorts of things-- were all back in business, used as officers' quarters and fortifications. There were other walled structures that'd been turned into tiny strongholds. Each one a fortress, each man within them fighting for his very life, and as many as forty Cardies or Jemmies --or both-- in each.

So I can't begin to tell you how happy I was to find out that our new R-5 --at least for Kalandra-- was going to be a Bajoran woman, a specialist in street fighting and guerrilla warfare. Her name was Alri Magro, and she was to be given the rank of private first class for the time being. I didn't ask where they'd gotten that idea from. She outranked three-quarters of my personnel.

When I first met her, I must admit, I was less than impressed with her. She'd been quartered in the lower decks of the ship, until she was introduced to me by Lieutenant Ronik.

"Sergeant Doyle, this is Alri Magro, your new R-5."

"Pleasure," I'd said, and shook her hand. Or, at least, I'd tried. She just kind of nodded to me and Tim, to whom she was introduced next. None of us really knew what to say-- at least, Tim and I didn't. Alri Magro didn't look too keen on speaking.

We walked half the way back to the section training bay before any of us said a word. "You serve with the Bajoran militia," I tried.

"Yes, sir," she replied, her voice tense. "Soon as I found out we were going to be fighting the Spoonheads again, I signed up."

"There a reason for that, Private?" Tim asked.

"Yes, sir, and her name is Alri Selna. My mother. She died in the Occupation, sir. My father never forgave the Spoons for it. Or himself."

"He died three years ago," I remarked, as I'd read in her personnel file.

"So you've read that file," she said.

"It's my responsibility to know my troops."

She stopped, hard. Tim and I walked a pace past her.

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

"Go ahead.

"I'm not one of your troops. Sir."

"Look, you can drop the Ro Laren bit, Private. You are in my section and you are one of my troops, and I damn well expect you to behave like it."

She wasn't expecting that. I was counting on her not expecting that. At least, not off Bajor. "Sir." And then she proceeded into the training area.

"Ro Laren bit?" Tim's left eye, entirely composed of metallic bits, a residual of his Borg experience, almost winked at me. Of course, I knew it couldn't-- he would've torn his eyelid to shreds if he'd closed it.

"You've never heard of Ro Laren? Ensign Ro Laren, first Bajoran in Starfleet? She was a legend. I knew her for a while back when--- uh---" I said no more.

"Back when what?" Walters gave me an inquisitive look.

"Back when I was a foolish young lad of seventeen living on Setlik III."

"You grew up on Setlik?"

"You could call it that." Then I stepped inside.

Alri was standing, aloof, against one wall. "TEN-SHUN!" I yelled, and everyone was on their feet, shoulder width apart. "STARFLEET-- at ease!" They all dropped their chins and watched me instead of the wall behind me. "This is Private First Class Alri Magro, of the planet Bajor. She is rated R-5, so you do not salute her. However, her security clearance exceeds my own, so I will be relying upon her heavily in the fighting to come.

"I've come to serve you all notice: the fighting in the days and weeks to come will make Buruta II look like Deep Space Nine. Some of you will not ship out with us to the next planet. Some of you will, but wish yourselves dead. Despair is not the answer. We're Starfleet. We're here to take this planet out of Jemmy's hand, or lay all our lives down for the trying.

"Now, I recognize that some of you are not comfortable with this-- and I would not die in anyone's company who didn't feel pride to fall next to me. For I could not find myself content to die with any other section about me. Here we represent the Federation. But on that planet, we will represent nothing but the grey and black harbingers of death, to our enemies. Anyone who has a problem with that, register your name at the door with Sergeant Walters, and be on your way. You've all made it this far-- but Starfleet doesn't look down on anyone who turns back now.

Nobody moved. No one even stirred. There were a few glances around, sure, to see if anyone took that fateful step. Not even so much as a waver. I continued.

"We will commence our mission briefing in fifteen minutes, in the junior officers' mess, E Deck. Anyone who is not there on time will not be rated for battle, and will be scrubbed from the drop. Are we clear?"

"SIR! YES, SIR!" came the response. Just as I'd hoped.

I let it linger for a moment. "Dismissed," I said at last. I turned to find Julia and Tim standing together.

"Well?" I asked.

"You stole that from somewhere, didn't you? That bit about dying in anyone's company."

"How'd you know?"

"Because they're your companies, boss." Then he made his way over to the door.

"Sir," Julia said. "May I speak with you?"

"Certainly. Let's step into my office." We walked to the back of the room, and I stood against the wall in the corner.

"Sir," she began.

"Yeah?"

"Your office."

"You're in it. Go ahead."

I saw Marianne lingering at the door. I hoped she'd leave. She did no such thing. She waited. As Julia and I talked, I watched Tim give her a long, hard talk about the meaning of the word 'dismissed'.

But for now I was focused on Julia. "Sir, I don't feel confident in my ability to lead this company, if--- well--- you must understand, sir, I have to be ready for the contingency that some fate like the one you mentioned before will fall upon the company."

"I wouldn't expect you to be anything but, Corporal. After all, how do you think I got these stripes?"

"Sir?"

"I was second to a staff sergeant named T'Lanis, a Vulcan. She took one for the company. She died, that others might live. And that is the very first responsibility of command: to brace for death in the name of the greater good. But the second responsibility is that which comes when those who command you undertake that first responsibility. There may be a time when you are the only ranked officer among a thousand others-- all privates, and you nothing but a corporal. They will look to you. Because the only other pair of eyes they have to stare into are those of Death."

"Yes, sir."

"Look, that's another thing I'd been meaning to ask you. Renalla --Corporal Yan and I were on a first-name basis. After all, it was hard to depend on each other if we had no trust between us."

"I understand, sir."

"No, no, that's what I mean. Don't call me sir. Sir is for everyone else in the section except Sergeant Walters. Call me anything else. Boss, Sean, jackass, Dixon, what have you. But not sir. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good."

"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable--"

"No need. Just know that I need to be comfortable with you. Everyone else is less trained with a gun." I smiled at her, and there was nothing more to say. She made her way out. As did Tim Winters.

That left me and Marianne. She stood there, anxiously trying not to look straight at me. I knew she wasn't there just to hold up the bulkhead.

"Private Leduc," I said.

"Sir," she replied.

"What is it?"

"Permission to address the Sergeant openly, sir."

"On what grounds?" I feigned disconcert.

"I would like you to explain to me why I was passed over for promotion, sir."

"You weren't passed over, Private. I just couldn't bear the thought of you in the deadliest position in the company."

"Sir."

"Jemmy likes to shoot at women with stripes, Private. He knows the effect it has on all of us, to hear the tough ones scream in pain."

"May I ask a question, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"Am I qualified for the position, sir?"

"Reckon so," I said. "But you must understand something, Private. I had a problem with my last second. Rumours of impropriety and fraternization. I had no such feelings for Corporal Yan, nor did she for me. We were simply as close as a sergeant should be with his second."

"I understand, sir." Of course she did. I knew what they were saying about me, even in my own section.

"And thus I did not want the scandal of an unfair trial in the court of redshirt gripings to taint another one of my best troopers."

"That doesn't make any sense, sir."

"Humans don't, usually, Private."

"If I may, sir."

"Certainly."

"You are aware that I have feelings for you beyond simple duties of command."

"I am. And I'm flattered."

"If I may, again, sir."

"You asked for permission to speak freely, Private Leduc. Go ahead."

"I do care very much about you, sir. And yet I would ask you, if that was a reason to disqualify me from consideration for the rank of Corporal, that the Sergeant simply make it plain rather than attempt to handle gently one he refers to as 'one of his best troopers'."

I didn't realize it before, but she was standing bolt-straight, at attention. And yet I was the one who was uncomfortable.

"You are aware that fraternization between ranks is strictly forbidden by Starfleet regulations, Private Leduc."

"Yes, sir."

"You are also aware that if your feelings were so much as to cause you to blink at the wrong time, I or someone else in this section could lie dead as a result."

"I am fully aware of that, sir."

"And yet you... persist in your feelings."

"Sir, I do. I apologize if that is not something you are equipped to handle in combat, sir."

"You're damned right it's not. And I'm ordering you not to repeat this to anyone, Private."

"Understood, sir. I'd like to hear it."

"I don't want you going into the fight. Not now or ever."

"Sir?"

"For exactly that reason, I'm recommending you for training in starship operations, as a petty officer onboard the Thunderchild."

Marianne just blinked at me-- a hard, stoic blink.

"You're not cut out to be a redshirt. You're compassionate, understanding, diplomatic, courteous, and you have a lot more refinement than anyone else in this section."

"That is a compliment, right sir?" Her chin tucked itself in, an expression of shame.

"It is. And if you're willing, I'd like to find a way to circumvent those regulations." I looked straight at her. "Ever since that day when you apologized to me for taking that wound, I haven't been able to shake the feeling that you had a bounden duty to do better for yourself. And if your devotion to me is all that's keeping you here, I would sooner do what I can to put you in a role where your devotion counts without you endangering your life to express it."

"Sir," she started, but she couldn't. "I... I don't know what to say."

"Thank me. And tell me if I'm right."

"Of course you are, sir."

"You're the first soldier that was ever wounded under my command, Marianne." She looked up at this-- me addressing her by name. "And I don't know if I could handle losing you. Not knowing what I know, and knowing what you feel."

"May I--- a question, sir."

"Go ahead."

"You... you don't feel the same way about me."

"Reckon I don't," I said, and her face fell, as did her chin, yet again. "But with your permission, I'd like to get to know you better. After the transfer of duties papers are in, of course."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Now. You're not coming with us. It's easier to put in the paperwork and change your mind-- so I hope you don't mind me taking a step in advance."

"Not at all, sir."

"You're to report to G deck. A fellow named Chief Macmorris is to meet you there, to instruct you when your training will begin."

"May I ask in what role, sir?"

"Troop transporter operations. It's a requirement of the role that the operator be at least partly qualified for battle. And I can't think of anyone more qualified."

"So, I still have to salute you. Call you 'sir'."

"For another couple hours, at least. Can I see you for dinner?"

"Will I get new quarters?"

"Your very own, in fact."

"I'll see you there, nineteen-hundred?"

"Nineteen-thirty. We're going to be briefing the section until then."

"Very well. Sorry I'll miss it."

"I don't think so," I said. And then I extended my hand to shake hers. She took it, and then we embraced. Then she was on her way to G deck.

I stepped out of the room, trying not to show any expression to Tim. But he knew.

"So that transfer notice cleared?"

"Without any problem. Second Class Petty Officer Ulrich, who beamed us over to DS9, was begging to be transferred out of the starboys."

"And you just beamed your new girlfriend in."

"Well, don't know about that yet. Just keep it under your commbadge for now, will you?"

"Jemmy could torture me for three years and he wouldn't get it out of me, boss. I'm happy for you."

"Yeah. Me too."

The briefing was standard stuff. Here's a map. Jemmy expects us to beam in en masse. We'll be riding down beyond the horizon, and come in over the lake, on the horses. Landing zones here, here, here, and here. Primary objective the High Castle, Jemmy's citadel stronghold in the centre of town. Secondary objectives were the industrial replicator plant and the starport at the far end of town--occupy or destroy, it's just as good.

Then I was on my way to dinner with Marianne.


	3. On to Kalandra

I rang the doorchime. Akira-classes had this ominous double beep that told you someone was at the door. I liked the more chime-sounding noise on the Nebula-class ships. Actually, now that I think about it, I shouldn't have paid such close attention to the doorchime, but I was so nervous that I couldn't do much else.

She opened the door, and both of them swept aside like they couldn't go any faster. Beyond them lay one of the dearest sights I have ever beheld. She had put her chestnut-brown hair up so that it flowed down from the base of her skull. Around her shoulders were a pair of black straps which kept a dress of the same colour about her. It wasn't really low-cut, and the straps had this sort of curve away from her arms, both of which were bare. The dress went down to her ankles, where she had a pair of flat shoes-- ever a sensible walker, if a spectacular dresser.

I had to nearly snap to attention to keep my eyes about her lovely face. She had the brightest eyes, a shade of shining green, and her fine, freckled face had to its credit the single most gorgeous smile I have ever beheld. I couldn't really move. I mean, here I was in duty uniform, stinking of calisthenics and briefing-room sit, and there she was...

"I had a little time," she said, at last. I couldn't get my mouth to operate. "I hope you like salmon."

"Repficator lish? I mean--- replicator fish?"

"No, I called down to Ship's Stores and asked if they had any--- did you just stumble over your words?"

"Maybe."

She gave a little giggle, and tilted her head forwards. "Oh, come in here, you." She held out a hand to me, and naturally, I took it. Holding her hand made me feel like it was out in the woods after school again, finding out the meaning of life with someone I'd been passing notes through the computer to, only to have my access point isolated by the instructor. The access point didn't matter out there, in the woods, walking hand in hand. No rules could keep my hand from hers. Not out there.

Her new quarters were small, but really suited her. She'd unpacked quickly, being lightly packed for battle. There was a dining room with a computer terminal in one corner, then the bedroom and bathroom beyond it.

"Can I ask you something, sir?"

"Don't-- Sean."

"Sean. That'll take some getting used to."

"Right." I sat down, a little too quickly. I'd call it a swoon, if you will.

"Well, what I wanted to know was, how long you knew."

"Knew what?"

"That I felt the way I do."

"I didn't, actually. I'm pretty blind to that sort of thing-- at least, in battle. When we were on Buruta, I tried not to pay too much attention to anything but the woods and the hills. Jemmy was there, and we had to get out alive."

"I know. Can I... can I tell you?" Now she was sitting, opposite me, still holding my hand.

"Of course, I'd like to hear."

"Well, I suppose it all started, really, the third or fourth day after you took command. I mean, it wasn't all at once, and we were a new company, but... do you remember the first fight between Medic Pratt and Private Emerson?"

"Yeah, I do." Mostly because it was the first fight I'd had to break up. "Something about seating arrangements in the briefing room."

"That's right. Emerson was upset that Pratt had been promoted just on the grounds that she was medic, since he was a private-first-class as well, and you said---"

"And I told them both to talk it out, before I settled it for them."

She laughed. "On stun, if I remember."

I smiled. It'd been primitive --hearkening back to my basic training-- but it was the best I could come up with at the time.

"I just remember how Emerson was so... well, obviously he just wanted a reason to talk to Medic Pratt."

"And now they're together."

"Yeah. And I just knew then that you'd be a good commander. If called upon, that was. I mean, I didn't really want to go into battle."

"No one does."

"Oh, I almost forgot." She went to get up, but I caught her before she was on her feet.

"No, no," I said. "Just show me where I should be going."

"Oh. Under the cover on that platter are two plates. Dinner, sir."

"Let me get that for you." First I helped her back into her chair. Then I set out dinner-- on two little onyx trays, each of which had their own utensils.

"Thank you. I mean, you didn't have to."

"I figure it's only fair. Best to keep that dress in as wonderful a condition as it looks."

"Thank you, sir." She looked down at her meal, smiling and blushing. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm just... not very good with compliments, is all."

"No one is, Marianne. If they are, they don't get them very often. Or shouldn't, at least. The ones who deserve them most never hear them-- or, when they do, they can't believe them." I tasted the piece of salmon I'd been cutting as I talked. I had to watch myself-- not say too much. No need to dominate. I could do that with the troops tomorrow. This was special.

"Can I ask you something, Sean?"

"You don't have to preface. Just ask."

"All right." She hesitated for a moment, fussing with her utensils. "Where are you from?"

"Setlik III. Ever heard of it?"

"Wasn't it fought over during the Cardassian War?"

"Yeah. Lots of good people died." I took another bite of fish, chewed, swallowed, continued. "There was a ship. The Rutledge. Cardies had been harassing our city for months. A number of us redshirts beamed down. My mom was dead, my father was gone off to join the partisans, and I was... well, I don't know where I was. I don't really remember.

"All I know is, they took me back to the Rutledge --old Excelsior-classer, that one-- and they treated me. Head lice, pneumonia, the whole deal. I wouldn't have lived long. And they saved my life.

"There was one medic, a Dr. Connelly. She took good care of me. She was the nearest thing they had to a pediatrician. She told me, 'Starfleet always takes care of our own. And even those that aren't, because we hope one day they will be.' I never forgot that, you know."

"That why you joined up?" She hadn't been eating, just listening to me-- watching me, with this look halfway between fascination and intrigue.

"That, and because there wasn't a whole lot going on after the war. Reconstruction was a lot of work, but I was in and out of trouble all the time. My dad came back with one arm-- the Federation gave him another one. But they couldn't fix the hole Cardie took out of his life. And I suppose I joined up for him. Couldn't stand the thought of some other kid going through life, like I did."

She just watched me. Still.

"Your fish is gonna get cold. Hope you don't mind if I keep eating."

"No-- not at all. I'm sorry. I just... I didn't know."

"Wouldn't have changed nothing if you had, right?"

She shrugged slightly. "I just... I was lucky, I guess. Raised on Luna colony, good parents, just couldn't really concentrate all that well. Not officer class material, no good with science. Read a lot, learned very little. Had a lot of... big ideas, of joining up and making my name as a starship captain after busting it out in the trenches or something. I don't know. It was schoolgirl foolishness, is all."

"Hope I helped with that."

"I was just so surprised when you said you were shifting me to shipside duties. Part of me always believed it'd end up that way, and I couldn't believe it was really happening. I still can't believe this is really happening right now."

"Well, can I do anything to convince you?"

She stretched her hand out to me again, and I took it in mine, and smiled into her eyes. I never thought of green as a particularly warm colour until I met Marianne. But I sure still do now.

We talked some more after dinner. I gave her the rundown on my career up to that point. She'd read my record. The missing year in my life, they'd put down that I'd been wounded in training.

"None of that," I declared boldly.

"What were you doing?"

"Maquis insertion. They had me working the front lines. After all, I fit in perfectly. Good cover story. I hate the Cardies as much as any Bajoran does. So I fit right in. I just knew where my heart was."

"So you never planned to go career."

"Nope. I didn't plan to live long enough. I was reckless. I fought with my commanding officers, I brawled with everyone else. And mostly anyone out of a uniform, I ignored. Until everyone in uniform started shooting at each other, and next thing I knew, I had a section of my own."

"Did Renalla help with that?"

"With what?" I gave her a look that made clear how much I wanted her to explain what she meant.

"With command, I mean. With shifting into the role."

"Yeah, mostly because she listened to my concerns."

"I was so disappointed when rumours started going around about you two."

"Rumours?"

"Well, you two were close, and you had fifteen of us with nothing else to do but gripe. So of course we put you and her together."

"Nah. What Renalla and I had was nothing but the friendship between a sergeant and his second."

She gave me a look of understanding. Maybe she thought I'd just explained how she got passed over-- I don't know.

"So you never wanted to pursue her romantically."

"You know much about Betazoids, Marianne?"

"Can't say I do, no."

"They have... really weird attitudes, by our standards, about love. They pick one mate-- and it's for life."

"What's so weird about that?" I wish I could say something other than that she looked hurt when she said that. I wish I could. But she did.

"Well, it's the connection they have with each other. Goes beyond hearts and minds, into souls. Very deep. And I don't want anyone that deep inside me. Barely enough room just for me."

"Oh."

I couldn't find a way out except through. "I don't know. Suppose I'm just too wary of others."

"What do you mean, others?"

"You know. Other species. It's just because I've never had a bad experience with an old-fashioned human being."

"Oh, I understand. I mean, we're all supposed to be friendly and non-discriminatory, but some species just have... attitudes, you know? I don't understand them. I realize that's no reason to dislike them, not understanding."

"Still, nothing wrong with being more comfortable with your own kind."

"I couldn't agree more." She had just finished up. I still had that refugee kid's appetite-- food, and more of it, please sir, I want some more. But a life of kilocalorie-based rationing in this red shirt had taught me not to push it.

I stood up and took her hand in mine. We stood for a moment, holding both of each others' hands. She made a move, but I looked down.

"No, no... please. I just... can I just look at you for a minute?"

"Okay. I'm sorry if I get anxious."

"No, it's okay. So am I-- you're looking back, after all." And we just looked at each other for a minute. Then I let go of her hands, and drew the back of my left across her right cheek. "I want to thank you for dinner, Marianne."

"Do you have to leave?" Her voice had a sort of little plea in it.

"We're not back in the briefing room until oh-eight-hundred."

"It's only twenty-one-hundred now. Please, I want you to stay."

"Sure." What else was there to say? Not like I was going to break and retreat. Not when I felt like victory all over.

I stepped forward, and put my arms around her waist. She threw herself towards me, and her arms fell around my shoulders. We embraced for a long moment, then she stepped away. Her back was to the wall, my arms pinned between her and it.

"Thank you, Sean."

"For what?"

"For being everything I'd dreamed you'd be."

"Reckon I'm more than that-- and not all in a good way, either."

"I know. But you really do care about me, and I can tell."

"Hey, I'm just doing what I feel is right."

She grinned, and her nose had a mischevious wrinkle to it. "Keep doing that. It's what you're good at." And then just as she moved to kiss me again, she added, "...sir."

I held her close to me, and we slowly made our way into the next room. I lowered her, kneeling down before her as she sat on the bed. I realized then that just under the strap on her right side were the tendrils of some sort of blotch on her skin. I recognized it immediately, but I tried not to look at it. She helped me out of my tunic, and then I put my head on her shoulder, and reached around back to unfasten the dress. As I did, the fabric slouched forward slightly, revealing the fullness of the scar. I tried not to look at it. But it was right there.

"Marianne-- wait."

"What?"

"I'm sorry." I let myself come to rest on my knees before her, and I looked down. "I didn't realize you hadn't had a dermoplasty."

"I don't intend to," she said. I looked up at her, completely surprised. "I think we make it too easy nowadays. Prosthetics and demoplasties and all our medical knowhow. No, I want it to look on the outside the way I feel on the inside some days."

"But you can see a counsellor about that."

"And you know how that works, Sean. They tell you it wasn't your fault, that the Federation provides for you, and then they send you off to die all over again. Sure, the Federation provides for us. A certain ration of food when we're living, a certain provision for our families when we're dead. I don't want to go through that. It's part of me now."

"And I'm so sorry."

"I don't understand."

"I should've protected you. I should've done more."

"Sean... it was my fault."

I remembered that she felt that way, of course. It was hard not to recall instantly. Those bright green eyes, a mixture of torment and apology...

"Come here," she said, as she stood up and let the dress fall away. She took my hand and helped me to my feet, where I stood in my undershirt and uniform trousers. She took my left hand and put it on her right shoulder. Her bra was strapless, and the full shape of the scar was visible, a crater from the upper part of her breast right to the collarbone.

"I--- I'm sorry," I said. "I keep thinking it's fresh."

"So do I," she replied as she undid her hair, and let it down. "But I want you to know, that I don't have any reason to feel anything from it. After all, my heart's on the other side." Her hair was shoulder-length; regulation length. It was just enough to fall across the scar and partially hide it from view.

"True," I said. It was the best I could do. "I don't... I don't understand how you can feel anything for me but rage."

"It wasn't your fault. If I'd run, they would've killed me. And I wanted to run, Sean. I wanted to run right home. But there was no way out-- and you kept us in that line. If you hadn't, we would've had a lot more wounded."

We both stood there a long moment, her looking at me, me looking at the back of my hand. "I knew I loved you right then," she continued. "I knew I could trust you, could follow you, anywhere, and do anything you asked of me. Because you gave me the strength to go on."

I didn't know what to say. Figured there was nothing to say. I put my other arm around her back and drew her tightly to me. She tucked her arms under and around, and pulled me down onto the bed. We rolled around a minute, then she called for the lights.

* * *

A few hours went by. By that point, we were together, under the covers. I was laying on my back, and on either side of my right leg was one of hers. She had her head on my shoulder, and her scarred shoulder was peeking out from under the sheet. She had one arm cradled under my head, and the other across my chest.

"I need to know something," she began, "and don't be afraid to be honest with me."

"Sure."

"You're not looking at this as a one-night thing, are you?"

"I don't know how to do one-night things. I don't have the heart to do that to someone. I don't know. Is that what you want?"

She blinked at me. "No, of course not. I just... well, I suppose they're all going to have a good laugh out of this."

"I don't understand."

"Them, the section. They're going to be talking about you, the guy who got his girlfriend out of the service, the guy who... who tamed one of his toughest troops..."

"Let 'em," I said, and I kissed her softly. "I don't care what they think. I care about what you think. You're the only voice that matters."

"You really want to know what I think?"

"Yeah," I said.

"I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I think I'm going to be worried sick at this time tomorrow, knowing you're off in a combat zone and I'm nursing a transporter. And I think that if anything ever happened to you---"

"Whoa, whoa. Not that."

"Well, I just don't know what I'd do!"

"You'd go on at your post, do your duty for the Fleet, for the cause. You'd go back home, to Luna City, when this war is over. And you'd do whatever it is you'd have done if we'd never met."

"And I'd miss you," she added.

"Yeah. I don't think about things in terms of who lives, who dies. I think in terms of me living and Jemmy dying."

"What about... after the war?"

"I hadn't thought on it much," I said. Which was true. What did I have to go back to? "Reckon I'd see where I wound up in the rank hierarchy. If I made officer, I'd want to see about training next-generation redshirts. If not, I'd just quit and go... somewhere. Maybe become a freighter pilot or something."

"But-- well. If we're still both still alive. I mean, we are together now, right?"

"Sure we are," I replied. "I mean, that's what we're here for, right?"

She smiled at me. "So... I can tell you that I love you?"

"You're doing it again."

"What?"

"The stripes come off in bed, Marianne. See?" I pointed to my neck. "No rank." I pointed to hers. "Right?"

"...well... I love you."

"I know. I love you, too." I smiled at her. "It'd be too complicated if we had rank in here. I'd need to get forms signed just to touch you."

"Well, like you said, no rank." She put her right arm across me and slid herself over, so we were nearer to face to face. Then she added, "right?"

A few more hours went by. We caught a sonic shower --not together, I was too tired-- and I suited up for duty. I tried not to strut on my way out. She saw me off in a bathrobe, half done up. The way she sat in the chair, her legs crossed, holding a cup of coffee from the replicator, her hair tossed behind her... she looked even more beautiful than the night before.

"You look incredible," I said.

"Thank you," she said, looking down into her coffee. "I'm sorry-- I guess I better get used to that."

"I have a lot of time to make up for," I replied. "I don't know how I missed it before. But you're so beautiful."

"Thank you," she repeated. Then she added, "About that."

"What?"

"Time. I don't know when I'll see you again."

"I have to come back to T-child every once in a while for command reasons," I lied. "I'll see what I can do about coming back."

"In one piece," she added.

"In one piece," I acknowledged. "You know me."

"That's just what I mean." Then, with a sarcastic kick to her voice, she added, "sir."

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be, is it? Well... you take care of yourself. Don't let anything happen to that transporter. If you need to talk, I can see if we're in comms range. If not... I'll keep a personal log, address it to you."

"All right," she said. "I'd like that."

I finished my coffee and tapped the table. Ship's chronometer read 07:38. "Suppose I'd better go," I said.

"Aww," she replied. "I don't want this to be goodbye." And then I noticed that, while she'd been looking down, she'd started to cry. "I'm sorry," she said, seeing that I'd noticed her tears.

"Hey, come here." I stood up, and she did the same, putting down her cup. I took her hand into mine and embraced her. "Don't worry. You know me. I'll take good care of myself."

"And everyone else, too. Just... don't be afraid to put yourself first, okay?"

"I won't. I promise."

"...because you can command a whole division, and I don't care. None of them is the man I love. And I want him back in my arms again soon... sir."

"Me too," I said. And I meant it. I didn't want to let her go. I didn't want anything quite so badly as to have my commbadge chirp, have it be Captain Valan himself, "good news, kids, war's over!" Sure, a Vulcan would never say 'kids'. Come to think of it, the concept of 'good news' would probably be lost on a Vulcan.

But Kalandra, and Jemmygrad, awaited me. And I had to go. Eventually I pulled myself away, kissed Marianne goodbye, and made my way to the briefing room. Got there in plenty of time, though the impulse to strut was hard to resist.

* * *

I found Tim in the briefing room.

"How'd it go last night?" he asked.

"Last night, and this morning, you mean." I shouldn't have said that, but it was too late by the time I realized it.

"Hey, nice, man... good job."

"Yeah. Say, Tim-- I never see you around with anyone."

"Uh... reason for that, boss. See, when the Borg assimilated me... uh... how to put this..."

"No way."

"Those hormones became irrelevant, know what I'm getting at?"

"Does it still work?"

"Hell, yeah. Just doesn't work the way it should as often."

"I'm sorry, man."

"I'm not. Women is bad news, man. No offense or nothin'."

"No, it's cool-- I'm mostly of the same opinion. Least now they got nothing to grab hold of you by, right?"

"Yeah--- but, hey, Sarge, keep that to yourself, dig?"

"You keep my little slip-up to yourself, and I'll do the same."

"No, it's cool. I'd meant to explain to you, regarding that, 'bout what the Borg enhanced and removed from my system. You know they re-fused my skeleton with steel so I can lift up to three hundred kilos?"

"No way."

"Yeah. Course, I have to use some kind of muscle stimulant that my nanoprobes automatically produce to get my tissues to go along---"

That was as far as we got. Captain Valan had called all the sergeants, lieutenants and captains together. All two hundred and eighty something of us. This was an officers' briefing-- even NCOs. Whole room was practically buzzing with Vulcans. Lucky for me that I spotted the other section leaders. Welsh and Price, from Bravo and Charlie (though they called it Chicago company, a reference to Price's hometown on Earth) were there, as were Pelletier and Bellamy, from Fox and Gold.

Hotel, Hadassah Roseman's squad, wasn't so much a section as an assigned escort to Dr. Singh's medical team, and the command officers of the regiment, and four Zeps, designated Able company. This was standard organization for all Starfleet regiments. The Zeps --Starfleet Enlisted Personnel Regulation Officers, a more modernized version of what you might call military police-- did all the public-relations stuff. While we were blowing up the village, they were explaining why to the bystanders.

Anyway. I looked around and saw them all. By then, we were all on our feet anyway. Captain Valan told us to sit down, and the briefing began.

"Peace, and long life." He gave us that damned Vulcan hand salute.

"Live long and prosper," came the response from the pointy-eared contingent. I muttered something I won't repeat. Tim caught it.

"I come before you today in order to advise you on the situation on the planet classified Kalandra. Our forces have fallen back along the shore of Lake 3-Alpha-9."

That wasn't Starfleet standard, but it was our way of doing business in the Two-oh-Second. But they'd set a grid across the planet, starting with a straight line of longitude running across the highest point, the 'alpha line'. That was why this lake was called 3-Alpha-9. It was the ninth lake in the grid, three spaces down along the line on which the highest peak on the planet was located. It was also the biggest of those lakes. There were twelve of them in that grid alone.

"The Thunderchild will break orbit upon our arrival at Kalandra and commence a most unusual maneuver. Some of you may be aware that the Akira-class heavy cruiser is capable of orbital insertion and planetary landing. The insertion point will be here." At this, the Captain indicated a point on a two-dimensional map of the planet, with Lake 3-Alpha-9 highlighted on it. "The ship will then descend into Lake 3-Alpha-9, and our Shadowfax-class troop transport shuttlecraft will launch."

There was a murmur in the room from those of us with enough sense not to ponder logically. "We're all dead," I said to Tim. He just nodded. I raised my hand.

"Sergeant First Class Doyle," the Captain said. I stood up.

"Dixon, sir. Sean Dixon."

"My apologies, Sergeant First Class Dixon."

"Sure. Look, sir. Doubtless our ship can land. But underwater? What're we doing in there?"

"The Jem'Hadar have set in place a complete transporter screen around the planet, and intelligence reports that Cardassian battle cruisers are abundant in the system. This is the only way in which we can retrieve the Second and Third Battalions, in order that they may be placed in reserve."

"I see. Will the shields work on the T-child, sir?"

"No, Sergeant, they will not."

"Thank you, sir." There were other questions. I didn't hear them. All I knew was that Marianne was coming down with us to Kalandra. Nothing else really seemed to matter. This was top-secret stuff until we splashed down. So I couldn't even tell her. Already I was wondering if anyone would notice a lifepod missing, two less life signs on board.

"This is, as I have stated, a most illogical and unorthodox maneuver. This is precisely the reason why Starfleet Command believes that it will work." Mostly 'cause, if it didn't, T-child and the whole Two-Oh-Second would be consigned to a watery grave. But old Captain Valan kept on talking.

"We will then maneuver in order to take and hold a beach-head on the edge of City 3-Alpha. The archaeological remains are not to be damaged unless absolutely necessary, and the city itself is to be fought for in as logical, and as respectful, a manner as is available." Rules of engagement had just bound all our hands. We didn't have a chance in hell. I just hoped they'd have me polishing rifles instead of landing on that beach. Jemmy wasn't going to take to us skipping a starship across his lake too kindly.

"Transporters will be inoperative across the whole planet, leaving us dependent upon ground transport, and the Shadowfax-class vessels. Third and Fourth Regiments will land first, on the far sides of the lakeshore, and draw Jem'Hadar and Cardassian troops away from the proposed beach-head. It will fall to First and Second Regiments to storm the beach. The task should be simplified by the intended reduction in enemy counteroffensive ability undertaken by Third and Fourth Regiments."

Vulcans to the left of us. Vulcans to the right of us. Jemmy and Cardie in front of us. Me cursing thunder. Oh, what a lovely war.

"Specific orders will reach each of the section and company commanders regarding their intended roles in the upcoming offensive."

A question-- this time from Angela Bellamy.

"Sergeant Bellamy. Go ahead."

"Sir, who's gonna man the T-child while we're gone? The enemy can swim. Can't they?"

"Yeah, but Cardie don't surf," Tim said to me. I chuckled.

"The ship will be manned by Starfleet security personnel." Great. Only thing worse than a mission planned by starboys for the redshirts was a mission planned by starboys in which other starboys posed as redshirts while the redshirts went out to see if a Shadowfax-classer could float. This mission had "complete tragedy" written all over it.

"In addition," the Captain went on, "the vessel will also be providing fire support by using its quantum torpedo launchers while underwater." So if they didn't know we were hiding a starship before... they sure as hell would the moment they opened fire. What next-- we'd have a cloaking device down there?

Briefing told us nothing else of value. It'd have been nice if they'd instructed us how to leave a last will and testament. Lucky for me I had nothing leave, no one to leave it to. We'd reach Kalandra at eighteen-hundred. Marianne was on duty until seventeen-hundred. We were expected to be on our horses, strapped in and ready to go in case anything went wrong. But that was none of my concern. A Shadowfax-classer can make it out even on a sinking Akira-class. We hadn't been in the business of sinking ships in over three hundred years-- just blasting them from the stars. This was madness. Even with the specially modified structural integrity fields and the specially modified quantum torpedoes and the specially modified everything else, if anything went seriously wrong, Marianne wouldn't have a chance. They hadn't specially modified the lifepods, after all.

Our main objective was to take out the transporter and communications jamming systems, locally. Then a message would be sent to our reinforcements-- the rest of the Seventh Fleet, comfortably awaiting our good news orbiting Shinrezi, thirty light-years out. Thirty light-years... they could get to Kalandra in, what, three, maybe four hours? By then their objective might be to salvage a dead starship and bury the dead. That might be all that was left.

* * *

We were instructed to tell our troops nothing --nothing!-- about the insertion. Just tell them that we were heading off the T-child. At least Third and Fourth Battalions had it easy. They were going to jump the sinking ship like the green-blooded vermin they were about to become. As soon as T-child touched down on the surface of the planet, they were to make their best imitations of a drowned ship's crew. They even got to go out the back way-- never mind the through-deck design.

I prepped everything, checked Rienzi over six times. Sixteen-forty-five rolled around and I sprinted to Marianne's exact location.

I called to her as she crossed a corridor. She spotted me and we snuck into a turbolift. "Hold," I said.

Her eyes were wide with panic. "What did they tell you?"

"Most fool nonsense I've ever been a part of."

"We're going to engage the Cardies, then fake a warp nacelle breach?"

"What?"

"That's what I heard! We're going to show up, let them fire on us, take out as many of their ships as we can, and then the engineers have a coolant breach packet retrofitted to the port nacelle. We're to simulate distress and make it look like we're going down. They have the whole thing planned out, to the letter."

"Suppose we actually are?"

"Well, I don't know. What will you do?"

"If anything happens-- get off this ship. Don't come looking for me. I will find you, Marianne. I won't let them hurt you. Just... survive. Make it out of here. If anything --anything-- goes wrong, I will do whatever it takes, I swear, as long as I find you."

"I won't leave you behind," she said. "If there's anything I can do. To hell with the orders. I won't let them leave you behind."

"Whatever it takes, okay?"

"Whatever it takes," she repeated, then added, "I love you."

"I know. I love you, too." I kissed her. "Look, if you don't hear from me... go to my quarters, gather the stuff."

"Oh, Sean!"

"No-- they might move someone in, and I don't want to lose my stuff. I'll be back for it. And you."

"And I'll be waiting." She smiled. "Sir."

I kissed her once more, then she stepped out of the turbolift. "B deck," I said, and went back to the hangar.

* * *

Everything was secure. It had to be. We didn't have a second chance at this. Or, really, anything. Even Lieutenant Ronik was dropping with us --on board the Rozinante. Captain Valan was going down with Fourth Battalion, posing as the ship's captain. We were even squawking a different transponder, as USS T'Pau, one of T-child's sister ships, reputedly with an all-Vulcan crew, the first ship since USS Intrepid was lost way back when to have such a crew. We were to show up looking for some lost friends, find some enemies, and then go down with a warp core breach fake-out. Then we'd rise from the dead, an Akira-class phoenix, water instead of ashes, T-child instead of T'Pau.

Seemed like a silly way of making war. But then, we needed Kalandra too bad. We were all expendable-- me, Marianne, Tim, and all those Vulcans.

I saw Victor Welsh pass by-- he was section command, like me. Only he had been in section command since the start of the war. He was at least ten years older than me, and Jake Price, from Chicago, was at least five. I figure I was the youngest section commander in the division, to be honest. I was only twenty-six when we fell to Kalandra. Wish I could say the same about when we left.

"So, what do you think, Welshie?" I asked him.

"What a complete mess. Only a starboy could think this was a good idea."

"Tell me about it. Why don't they just clean the grid from orbit?"

"That's what I told Pricey-- narrow-beam, high-power phaser shots. Take out the jammers. Drop us in, move onto the next grid. We're just taking this bird into a hornet's nest, man."

"Well, hey, for the cause, right?"

"Nuts to the cause. I got three kids back home, man. I hadn't planned on never seeing them again, hear?"

"Yeah. Got me a woman I wouldn't mind seeing home with again." Hers, of course-- home, for me, now meant wherever Marianne might be.

"Look, whatever happens back there, we got your back."

"Likewise, Welshie."

"You're a good kid, Dix. Keep your head and your tail clear, and trust to hope. We're gonna make it out of this one. Like we always do. We're First of the Fourth. We've got nothin' to fear."

I caught up with Julia Hayden. She was in her quarters when I paged her. She made it down to the deck in record time.

"Reporting as requested, sir."

"Julia... good, thank you." I handed her the padd with the map. "You good with maps?"

"Not the best, sir, but I do what I can."

"Good. I couldn't find my way off a planet if I leapt into orbit. On a starship or starbase, I'm much more easy-- three-dimensions, see. But hills and such, that's just confusing."

"Topography, sir?"

"That's it. Throws my senses out of whack."

"So you want me to memorize the whole map?"

"Memorize what it looks like now. Memorize anything we find out. And keep yourself alive. You're my map trooper. I'm only going to lead us into death if I can't find my way around."

"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"

"Yeah. I need something good to tell the troops. You know, on the way down. Last time out, I ripped off some dead guy, play about a king. I need something similar for this time, only we leave in ninety and I need it now."

"I can think of a few things, sir."

"Try me."

She punched the padd command interface a few times, and pulled up something. "One of the psalms, sir. While I normally would see to the certain doom of anyone who messed with this one, in this case, I think I can make an exception."

"Certain doom, eh?"

"Yes, sir. If I may, sir."

"Yeah."

"Your doom would be... disadvantageous to me, as it would mean increased responsibility, and less time for the things which matter most to me."

"Like your faith."

"Yes, sir."

"So you just want me to stay alive so that you don't have to command?"

"If it helps to think that way, sir."

"All right. Know that map."

"I will do my best, sir." She still stood there.

"That's all."

"Thank you, sir."

I still held the padd in my hand. "Oh,Corporal Hayden," I called, as she walked away.

"Already committed to memory, sir."

"Very good. Carry on, then."

"Sir." She did.

I read the poem --or whatever she called it-- that she pulled up. Yeah, this didn't look too hard to work into a speech.

* * *

We were strapped into the Rienzi, ready to go, and I tapped my commbadge. "Attention, Second Section. This is Sergeant Dixon. We're about to be involved in one of the..." I resisted the urge to say 'stupidest', but it was hard.

"In one of the most complex military maneuvers yet attempted in this war. Starfleet Command has devised it, Starfleet command has provided for it, and Starfleet Command has asked us to carry it out. Starfleet has seen to our every need, and want. Starfleet has nursed us back to health, has treated us with every comfort, has given us hope in times of despair. And though we'll walk in the valley of death, we should fear no evil, because we will walk together-- for the cause, for the uniform, for the Fleet, and for the Federation.

"We're in this together, folks. We'll make it out the same way-- together. Anyone disagree?"

"SIR! NO, SIR!"

"Are you with me?"

"SIR! YES, SIR!"

"Then strap in and safety rifles! Checklist!"

The checks started coming in-- thirty-one, not including myself, to go through. Hayden took care of that for me. Once she gave me the thumbs-up, I checked my own.

"And mine as well. STARFLEET! Remember your training! Fear no evil! Stand together! Fight together! And victory will be ours!"

The ship rocked. Not a good feeling. Then again. And another. I could practically hear the ship's klaxon sounding, the faked distress signal, the second-last Cardie ship being blown to pieces, the last one moving in for a kill shot as the T-child hit the atmosphere.

Then I felt the whole ship rock hard. No mistaking that-- penetration. Then a hard fall. I could swear it got harder to breathe. I tapped my commbadge.

"Dixon to Leduc."

"Sean? You okay?"

"Yeah. We haven't left yet."

"I'll be waiting for you."

"I know. I'll see you when I get home."

"Love you. Leduc out."

"ALL HANDS, BRACE FOR IMPACT," I heard. Not from Rienzi-- from a speaker inside wired into T-child's all-hands system. After all, we still counted. Moments passed. Then a shudder. The inertial dampening system hadn't been quite fully overcompensated. But we were floating on top of the water. I took the padd from Julia, and tapped a couple commands-- ship's schematic. Main launch bay. Doors-- status report. Rear doors open. Vessels departing. I went back to the schematic. A few lifepods were being released as well-- I saw them blink green twice, then go black instead of the white of the full schematic. They were going all out to fake this, weren't they?

Sick curiosity prevailed-- I patched in internal sensors and went looking for water onboard. Only things I found were the ship's pool and the emergency water supply. No leaks-- yet. I tapped in the structural integrity status. No change. Holding. Doors-- status report. Both closed. So two Battalions were away. Off to give Jemmy a surprise.

"THIRTY SECONDS TO LAUNCH!" came the voice of the starboy up front. Everyone tensed up. At least a couple of them had gotten sick, leaned forwards and put their stomach contents out on the ground. Rienzi's whole compartment stunk terribly of vomit. I shut it out of my mind. I tried to think of how Marianne had smelled the night before, that sweet, salty scent of femininity and sexual energy. It was the sort of thing that you wanted the whole universe to smell like, just so you felt the energy to keep going. Where we were heading would smell a lot worse than this compartment. No xenoforms meant no decomposition. That was a relief. But blood still had that odor of ruddy iron to it --unless you were a Vulcan or a Jemmy-- regardless of xenoforms.

There was a rush, and we were off. I felt Rienzi buck as we hit the water, then surfaced. My padd had gone blank-- disconnected from the T-child internal computer. I tapped into Rienzi, got the external view. We were completely in blackness. No light-- it was night planetside. And we were to just drop in on the beach at first light. Never mind the starship we were leaving behind, and the woman I loved aboard it.

To say I had mixed feelings would be an understatement. My feelings weren't mixed. They were straightforward, or rather, straight backwards. I didn't want to go to Kalandra. It's a pity I didn't have the option of trusting my gut on that one. The way things would play out in the weeks and months to come, I'd find that I'd come to hate my gut feeling for being right.


	4. The High Castle

Right from the start, the drop went to hell. We couldn't get out, first off. Rienzi had to go up the beach then drop us out the back. Meaning all Jemmy had to do was shoot at the sides to pin us down. Seems that designing the ship for ease of the pilot would've been a much better idea if they hadn't insisted on fitting a whole section into it. But then, there was nothing saying we had to land on the beach, in specific. Our starboy took the orders a little bit too literally.

We broke from the waves, and flew out in a staggered pair of echelon formations. Ground fire started coming up almost immediately, but the phasers on the horses did their jobs. If anyone was on that beach when we landed, they were pinned down. Rienzi dropped us out as near the waterline as they could get, it seemed. We had a good hundred metres between us and some structure. Each of us dropped out the access hatch in back, and rolled to the ground as Rienzi sped along the beachfront. We were trained in doing this for emergencies. Seemed that was just what we were getting ourselves into.

I looked down the beach after I dropped out. Our whole section was sprinting up to the wall of this one ruin. I followed suit. "SECTION!" I screamed. "DELTA! FORM on ME!" There had been a Cardie gun emplacement on top of it, but smoke was coming out-- whatever was inside had been phaser-burned to a crisp. I could smell toasted flesh. "ECHO! OVER the TOP!" Tim took his company into the building to fortify it. "DELTA! FORM on ME!" I saw another ruin, with a standing front, facing me. I had a feeling. I took Delta across the road. I gave Julia the hand signal for 'left-- around-- check rear'. She pointed to four of the troops, and went around the side. Moments later I heard phaser fire, and we went in the front door. Three Cardies had been inside.

"Well," I said. "Good to see you have this under control."

"Thank you, sir."

"Okay. Our objective is the jammer complex. We have to take it out."

"Our company in specific, sir?" Emerson asked.

"No. The regiment. It's on the far side of town. Julia?"

"Six blocks north, five east."

"Right past that replicator facility," Heath realized.

"Not past, Mr. Heath. Through."

Indeed, Fox and Gold companies had landed right on the grounds of the industrial replicator facility, and were in it presently. It was a good two-block hike for us, but we legged it. We moved by leapfrog, from ruins mound to ruins mound, each one a momentary stronghold, with Echo. They moved out of their structure, and we held the approaches. Then we moved, and they had their rifles up. We worked through a number of what the map had told me were once dockhouses without taking fire.

I looked up into the town, away from the lakeshore, at one moment. It was tiered upwards, away from the lake. Standing out even in the dawn was a single large compound on the very crest of the ridge that ran through town, a citadel. We took to calling it, in the weeks to come, the High Castle. At first we couldn't imagine having to refer to things by name. We just pointed-- that house, this street, and so on.

We moved into the industrial replicator facility. I heard phasers and enemy weapons exchanging fire down the far end. The complex itself was huge-- fortified against aerial bombardment and phaser fire alike, with a set of shield generators about the place. Those had been off when we landed. Snowmane had swept through and taken them out. We looked through the place, quickly. Tim sent a few nanoprobes into the main computer. By the time we had got the whole section into the building, Tim controlled it with little more effort than if it was his weapon. And so it became. He sealed the doors shut, and turned on all the lights. Cardie had no place to hide.

"Give it up!" we called out to the spoonheads, hoping they would get the hint. I saw Alri, and I kept a close eye on her. She had her phaser rifle at hip-height, but if she raised it to fire, I was ready for her.

One of the spoons didn't feel like giving it up so easily, and he aimed his gun at the replicator. He never had a chance. Alri cut him down, then the rest of them, without blinking.

"What the HELL are you doing?" yelled Pelletier.

"He wasn't going to surrender, sir."

"You're Bajoran, Alri," I reminded her, "not Betazoid."

She gave me a dirty look, and lowered her rifle.

"STARFLEET--- We HOLD this POSITION! Fortify the approaches!"

"Shields activated," Tim said.

I walked over to talk to Pelletier and Bellamy, and their seconds, with Julia.

"What the hell do we do now?"

Bellamy spoke first. "Recommend we hold this position."

"Jemmy's going to expect us to do that," Pelletier said. "We've got to blow it and keep moving to the objective."

"Twelve industrial replicators? No way," I said.

"I agree," Bellamy said while nodding. "These could come in handy. Especially if we're down here a while."

"So we just sit here?"

"We've got to make this place secure, but at the same time, I don't know how much we can hope for." I shrugged. "You see that ridge? We've got to get to the other side of it to achieve the objective."

"Comms are dead," Pelletier informed us. "We can't call in backup."

"We need to fortify this compound," I decided. "We'll hold it and see if we can't find a way to use it as a base of operations."

"Sounds like a plan," Bellamy agreed. "Let's start."

* * *

Tim did most of the work, admittedly. Having him around saved us so much time learning how to program the replicators. He just re-wrote the code to reproduce what we needed, Fed and enemy patterns alike. We had four shrouded pillboxes pre-fabricated and ready for set-up just within the shield perimeter. So even if Jemmy did break through, there was nothing he could do.

The tricky part was what happened between us getting the shields up, and Tim closing the doors. If there were any Cardies outside, we had to be ready for them. I formed up a patrol of six and went out through the side door, swept around the lakeside wall of the building out to the shield perimeter. Then I had a second patrol, led by Pelletier, sweep out the door after we'd cleared it, and move left while we moved around the opposite side of the building. Right away, Jemmy fire started coming down a narrow alleyway, but the building's shield perimeter knocked it away. Else we would've all been dead. We returned fire, standing up, and the phaser fire went right through the shield and struck Jemmy dead. Just a patrol, by the looks of it. I kept us moving.

We swept over past the wire into a nearby pre-fab barracks that Spoony had dropped in.

"Reckon we should stay on this side of the line, sir," Pratt said.

"We have to clear the surrounding buildings-- shields or no shields."

"Understood." She drew her pocket phaser in one hand, tricorder in the other. "I'm reading six life signs. There may be more, shrouded."

"Everyone ready? Let's go."

We had met up with Pelletier's patrol now. The two skirmishing patrols we had now moved past the shield perimeter. Tim had already re-programmed it to recognize Starfleet commbadges as an entry point countersign. We passed through it with a blink. Right away, four of Jemmy unshrouded right around us, and we took them down. One of Pelletier's kids, Coleman, took one in the shoulder. His medic, Fournier, took him back across the wire. I sent Lott over to join Pelletier's company, keep our numbers even.

We burst in the door, and flanked it up a set of stairs. Pelletier's company cleared the first floor. At the top were three Cardies with guns drawn. They hit Lange, who rolled down. I side-stepped and narrowly missed joining his tumble. I took down one Cardie with a shot; Park nailed a second square in the chest, heavy stun. The third one set his gun to overload. By that point, Sholar must've hit him, because he tumbled to the side, dead.

"EVERYONE OUT! CLEAR OUT! CLEAR OUT NOW!" I picked up the lower end of Lange, and Pratt and I carried him out, while the rest of the patrol made for the exits. Another four-Jemmy patrol had come upon us, unshrouded, and hit Lott and another of Fox company-- but we took all four of them down without an issue. There were only seven of us now; Emerson and Pratt carried Lange while I tossed Lott over my shoulder, and Pelletier looked to his own.

It was just as we were across the wire that the whole building shuddered with the explosion. It blew the roof clear off. I saw Sholar standing there, his eyepiece in place.

"Don't see any others around for a klick or so, sir."

"Good," I replied. Not that it meant anything. Jemmy could have a whole flanking column heading out to besiege us and we'd never know it. I had Sholar put a couple extra bullets off in different directions, down streets, just to see if he could hit anything. We could hear the ricochet on one all the way down a street, without a wound to show for it that we could see.

Then I told Sholar to reposition, and do what he could putting fire on that Jemmy stronghold up on the ridge. I wanted them living in terror. Gold company had a sniper with a rifle just like Sholar's, a fellow named Ali Hadawi. I had Hadawi and Sholar work together and find as many Cardies as they could in the outlying area.

The rest of us mostly just held the shield perimeter. We'd hear Jemmy out there, shooting, and we'd take a position. The whole thing was actually down in what I had read to once have been some sort of amphitheatre or something. So we were in a bit of a depression in the ground. Which was good-- natural defillade was a bonus.

I had Tim extend the shielding grid to include the ridge of the amphitheatre's form, and then I stationed patrols just inside. If Jemmy wanted in, he either had to make for the front door, or come in over the top. Either way, we had shields, he didn't.

About that time, Bravo and Chicago companies made for our position. We'd all had our initial-point, which was actually right near the replicator. I think we took it a little too easily, myself. And one Jemmy scarab over the area would render our progress null-- they could break our shields no problem.

One problem we encountered right away was using the commbadges as a way in. Four Jemmy popped up, with commbadges they'd swiped off dead Starfleeters, right past the main gate shield generator. They strapped a bomb to it-- we only managed to take out one of them. We all hit the deck until the bomb blew. When it did, Jemmy unshrouded and came through the breach in the shield-- over the top, through the gate, any way he could get in. We held firm, though we lost six --three from Bravo, one from Fox, another from Golf, and Delta's own Will Ulrich. Ulrich had been Marianne's replacement; they had traded duties. So far, Ulrich had seemed to be doing well, so I hadn't said anything. Jemmy just got lucky. I couldn't help but wonder if Marianne would've been in his place.

* * *

It was about noon by the time we heard comms traffic again. Lieutenant Ronik came through loud and clear. Elements of 1st and 4th Regiments had broken through to take the jammer complex, and were requesting reinforcements. We stayed behind to hold the replicator complex.

"Lieutenant Ronik, this is Sergeant Dixon."

"Sergeant... Dixon?"

"Delta Company, sir."

"Ah. Go ahead, Dixon."

"Sir, four of your companies have taken the industrial replicator hold it. We hold it presently."

"Understood. Instruct all sections to hold position. I will attempt to link up with you there this afternoon. Ronik out."

"Son of a bitch," Pricey said. "He's got Hotel and Able out there and he's blitzing around with our right flank."

"Didn't think Vulcans had a sense of victory," Welshie added.

"Either way, orders are for us to stay put."

"Sure," Bellamy added. "Fighting's going on somewhere else."

"Maybe the Vulcans need this one. I don't know."

I shrugged it off. Vulcans could do whatever they wanted. I'd gladly babysit these replicators for the rest of the war. Didn't affect me none. But, of course, that was not to be the case.

"Hayden."

Julia came running over, and stood at attention. "Sir."

"No, no, Julia--- don't make it look like you're talking to me like I'm in charge."

"Sir?"

"Jemmy can see in here. He sees you saluting me and hanging on my every word, he's going to figure you're either my love-slave or my second. Either way, I'm important enough to get the attentions of a lovely woman in a combat zone. So knock it off."

Hayden looked at me for a moment, and then down. I looked off, and then something put me on the ground. I felt a stinging pain in my upper jaw, and I stumbled back to my feet.

"Just acting the part, sir," she said.

"So you hit me?"

"Beggin' the sergeant's pardon, but nobody addresses me that way."

"What'd I say?" I wasn't just knocked flat on my ass. I was floored.

But Hayden said nothing more. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yeah-- get me that map. No, you know what? Don't bother. I'll get it myself."

"Sir." Then she walked away.

Tim Walters, as well as the other sergeants, had come running up. "What the deuce was that?"

"Never mind. You got a map?"

"Yeah. You need a look-see?"

"I'm taking us over onto the offensive." I turned to Pelletier, Bellamy and Price. "You in?"

"Anything's better than standing pat," Bellamy said. Pelletier and Price nodded.

"Where's Welshie?"

"Leading a patrol," Price said, "but he totally agreed with you. We need to get moving."

"I think we can figure something out. If we leave one section here, and take the other two out, right up the hill at the High Castle, we should be able to make our mark."

"Shouldn't we co-ordinate with the other regiments?"

"No need," I said. "If they're aiming at a Starfleet uniform, and firing? We've already lost this war."

"Agreed," Pelletier added. "Besides, it's not like they shouldn't expect us."

"We're going to take high casualties," Bellamy said.

"Nah. Think about it. Jemmy is going to expect us from the left and right-- and he's still got Spoony in reserve, since he's too afraid to put them into the fight."

"Right."

"So what we have to do," I continued, "is come right at them. And I know just the way to do it."

"How?"

"We call the T-child, and tell them to put a couple torpedoes down right in the courtyard. They'll be dazed. The Vulcans will take that opportunity to charge. We'll be in position to be the first ones in."

"Wait a minute," Price objected. "We're in no position to capitalize just for the sake of rubbing it in the Vulcans' faces."

"That's not what this is about. Our objective is to win the war. We take the High Castle, then the reinforcements arrive, we clean this planet up, and we all go home. Not a bad day's work, I'd say."

Price raised a hand. "Except that if the High Castle is in ruins from a few torpedo drops, what are we taking?"

"We could use the horses," Bellamy suggested. "We could drop down right in the High Castle, storm it from within."

"Or we could use the troop transporters on the T-child," I mused.

"We couldn't do that without reliable sensor data," Price reminded me.

"I know. Hayden-- front and centre!"

Julia took her time coming over.

"Today, Hayden."

"Yes, sir." She continued to stroll.

"If you don't triple time it RIGHT NOW, CORPORAL, I will PERSONALLY SHIP YOUR REMAINS HOME! NOW MOVE!"

Hayden broke into a run.

"The map." Julia handed me the map. I held it out for all the sergeants to see. "Corporal Hayden has taken the liberty" --and I hung on that last word for a moment-- "of collecting all the data she could-- topography, troop placements, gun moorings, the whole deal. The High Castle, ladies and gentlemen."

"But how are we going to do this?"

"We can contact the T-child. We're just not supposed to. So we do a relay via Rienzi or Traveller."

"And then?"

"Then we beam back to the main transporter room, and reassemble in the troop transport room."

"And then we drop right in on them!" Price clapped his hands. "I'm in."

"Me too," Bellamy added.

"I'll get Welshie onboard, Sarge," Price added. "I mean, he's section leader. He'd go for this in a heartbeat, though."

"We'll have to collect our companies, split them into two, and rapidly be beamed out, one squad at a time. Jemmy will detect the transporter activity and search for a source. He'll look up. That'll buy us time. We'll have to co-ordinate with Battalion Command, let them know what we're up to."

"I'll take care of that," Bellamy volunteered.

"All right. Price-- you want to talk to Ronik?"

"Sure-- way I see it, though, Sarge, you're the man in charge of this regiment."

"Nonetheless-- get him on comms. Tim-- can you patch a comm channel through to the ship?"

"No problem. I could fly Rienzi if you needed me to."

"No need. The horses are patrolling our flanks on radio silence."

Tim looked at me surprised. "How do you know that?"

"It's on the map, right here," I pointed out.

"Sure. I just thought only I knew that. Sensor suite I installed on the roof."

"Right. Okay. Pelletier-- you and me, we're going to have to get everyone corralled inside, in tight formations, ready for transport. We're going to have ten, maybe fifteen minutes to pull this off."

Walters blinked and looked at me. "I have T-child on comms."

I pointed to my commbadge. "Dixon here."

"Lieutenant Dixon, this is Commander---"

"Sir, that's Sergeant Sean Dixon, Third Section leader, First of the Fourth, Two-oh-Second."

"Oh. Sergeant. Forgive me. Commander Bowie here. Go ahead."

I explained the plan to our esteemed starboy leader, who agreed. By that point, Pricey had done as good as he said, but he came back with Welshie in the middle of my talk to Bowie. They stayed quiet until I had talked the Commander into authorizing the beam-outs.

"Ronik's dead," he informed me afterwards. "So's three-quarters of Hotel Section, including their first and second."

"No..." It was all I could say.

"We're not authorized to make any direct recommendations," Welshie said, "but it's always unofficially done when a regimental leader goes down in battle."

"I know," I said. "And Roseman's out. She was Ronik's first choice."

"I think I was his second choice," Welshie said, "but I'm too old for this. I say we put it to a vote."

"Why bother?" Bellamy asked. "Anyone going to vote for anyone other than Sean?"

No one moved.

"Yeah," I said. "I would. I'm not cut out for this. Everyone who outranks me keeps dying off. Hell of a way to get a field commission."

"There's no other way out of the NCO ranks except death," Tim added. "If they ask, we're all putting you in the big man chair, boss."

"Well, I'd still want you as my second, Tim. So start training a replacement, okay?"

"Yes, sir, mister big-bad lieutenant." He smirked at me.

"Hey now, don't be startin' on that until it's on my neck, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right-- Welsh, Pelletier-- which one of you is staying here?"

"Reckon it should be me," Welsh said. "Price and me can hold this place 'til you folks come back." He stepped forward and pointed at me, poking me softly right on the chest. "And you bring 'em back."

"Consider it done. Okay. Let's roll." We broke off to ready our companies, when Tim stopped me.

"Look, all that stuff you just talked big wasn't all an excuse to go back and see your woman, was it?"

"Course not. We need a way in, and Jemmy ain't gonna open the door for us, I don't reckon."

* * *

They beamed us out first. I triple-timed my half of the company off the pad, and Hayden's half beamed in right behind us. We were down the hall and around to Troop Transport Room Two in three minutes.

The door opened. No Marianne. I tried not to be disappointed. But I was. I hustled my half into place, then Hayden and her half of Delta. Echo came in next, first M'Nurr's half of that company. Tim came in with his bunch second.

"She's not here," he said to me.

"None of my concern," I nodded.

I was done ushering through Fox company, with Gold on their way, when Marianne burst in the room, looking completely exasperated.

"Why didn't you--- why didn't you tell me you'd be back?"

"Reckon it wouldn't be for long. I didn't want you worrying."

"I have been worried, Sean! You haven't send me a commlink since you left!"

"Couldn't-- radio silence." I had two padds in my hand, and I gave her the one without the map on it. "I wrote something down for you, last night. I don't have time to say it."

"How long do they have?" Marianne asked the operator.

"Three minutes."

"Okay. Come here." She pulled me aside.

I pointed to Bellamy as Gold came in, and said, "take over?"

"Sure thing! Okay-- let's move!"

There was one spot still open-- for me.

"We can't get out," Marianne told me. "I heard some engineers talking. This ship is stuck down here."

"What?"

"The impulse engines are too powerful, they just shred the lake bed. The reactor control thrusters don't operate for long underwater, and we can't very well generate a warp field. They're going to have to attempt to use inverse tractor-beam fields, to push off, get themselves high enough that they can use the impulse engines and blast us out. But we're stuck down here."

"Oh my," I said. "How long will that take?"

"Won't matter if Jemmy attacks. But they figure it'll take two weeks to modify the tractor beams. They're on some sort of spindle, I guess? They'll just break off in a planetary gravity field."

"Look... transporters still work. And they're promoting me to Lieutenant."

Marianne looked excited and squealed, "really?"

I raised a calming hand. "Ronik's dead. They're putting me in for it. Provided I survive."

"Oh, that's still good, though. A field commission. I'm so proud of you, Sean."

"Thanks." I just sort of smiled.

"Sir?" the operator said. "Thirty seconds."

"Okay."

"You gotta go?" Marianne asked.

"I gotta go. We're storming the castle, beautiful. I gotta go to work. But I'll be home soon."

"And I'll be waiting. I love you."

"I know. See you soon."

I checked my rifle and tapped my commbadge. "All sections-- clear?"

"Delta-- clear!" Hayden reported.

"Echo-- clear!"

"Fox-- clear!"

"Gold-- clear!"

"You all done with the little lady?" Tim asked.

"Nope. We're gonna live forever, me and her." I waved to her as the compartment door sealed itself into place.

"FIFTEEN SECONDS!" the operator's voice boomed from the overhead speaker.

"All right, Starfleet-- let's do what we do best. Close quarters for us, no quarter for Jemmy. No prisoners. No retreat. No going back.

"ENERGIZE!"

The blue. I always loved the blue. It had that reassuring shade to it, like the lake we were beaming out of.

Two weeks. T-child was stranded completely. Somebody must have been sitting in an office on some starbase right now, asking how this could've gone so tragically wrong. See, Akira-classers might be designed for landing, but not for seagoing. At least, not in the formal sense of the word. I wanted to have told Marianne to fix sails and make for the north star. I wanted to tell her that all I ask is a tall brunette, and a star to dance with her by.

I wanted to tell her so much... so much of which vanished into the blue, as we beamed right into the centre of the High Castle.

* * *

It was just as Hayden's map had predicted. Two hundred metres square, sloped walls, real Cardie looking job, like that space station. We materialized, all sixty of us, right down in the centre of Jemmygrad. Nobody saw us-- the sensors didn't even register a perimeter breach at first. I ordered, by hand signal, for Fox to clear the wall, for Gold to storm the barracks, and for Echo to shut down the external shield generator. I signalled back to Delta that we were going to sweep around the Castle in squads of four. I pointed to Alri, to Sholar, and to Pratt. Hayden took Lange, Bluvid, and Dalton. The other six sort of milled about around Emerson. After all, Lott was still in the limited sickbay we had back in the facility, and Ulrich was dead. Our company was fourteen, functional.

I had Sholar take a position, with Pratt, out of the way. I took Alri with me up a staircase to the wall. We surprised three Jemmies on the far side of it, apparently on their way out to patrol. A fourth unshrouded; Alri took care of him. We fired along the base of the wall, and Jemmy started charging towards our position. Someone sounded a perimeter alarm; Cardies came pouring out right into Gold's line of fire. Fox covered them and put fire on anything that moved up on the wall. Then they burst over the top.

From the top of the line, I could see the Starfleet phaser fire coming towards the ridge. Third Battalion's line of combat was about two klicks out. I looked the other way-- Fourth was three klicks out. They'd linked up with Second Battalion in town and were sweeping across, using a building on the north side of town as a swivel point. Knowing Fourth Battalion, it was the same building where they'd shut down that damned jammer complex. Jemmy knew better than to put so prized a target inside of a major fortified area like the High Castle.

Tim took control of the shield generator, and re-programmed it. It was below decks; a few Spoon technician types had manned it, but they were presided over by hardened troops. And a hidden bunker complex had been discovered by Echo while their sergeant was hard at work. They'd cleared it out.

I tapped my commbadge. "Company leaders-- report!"

"Echo-- all clear below! Shields secured"

"Delta-- clear on deck!"

"Gold-- barracks clear!"

"Fox-- clear up top!"

"All right-- Third Section: form on the doors. Tim, open 'em up. We're going out. Second Section: garrison detail. Pelletier-- get on the comms to Third Battalion command. Tell 'em not to come in shooting."

"Yes, sir!"

I went with Alri across the battlements to the gatehouse. "What do you think?" I asked her.

"If I may, sir."

"Go ahead."

"I never respected you until this moment."

I chuckled. "No one did, Alri. No one except one woman on a sunken starship."

"If you need a regiment advisor, sir. Someone who specializes in cityfights."

"I'll keep you in mind."

We went down the stairs and met up with Delta. Hayden gave me an exasperated look.

"I was off by a metre, sir. The barracks-- they couldn't have moved it. Could they?"

"Don't sweat it, Hayden. Lead your company out."

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

"Oh. All right." It was the first and only time I've ever seen Julia Hayden at a loss as to how to behave. Didn't last nearly long enough. "DELTA! FORM on ME! Let's move out!"

"Door?" Tim said to me.

"No time like the present."

Gold company was just moving around to man the upper battlements when we moved out. The sloped walls left no place to hide, so we had no fear of ambush. We swept out, right along the crest of the ridge. Tim came out with a formation beacon, and set it at a point about ten metres from the gate. Moments later, the horses came screaming in, their auto-phasers whining with the sweet sound of fire support. We moved out, in a pack formation, sweeping down the ridge's westward side.

From the gate --just to give you an idea of the land-- was about a half-klick gradient that just sort of twisted off. The town itself was built up around this ridge, and a garrison road had connected the fort with what appeared to be a flat road beyond, running north-south. From the air, you could see that road connect to another, beyond the lake, at a three-way intersection, cut right out of the rock like a dried-up canal. Perfect for moving troops along, as we were to find out.

But the ridge itself sloped down that way, as if to make it harder to storm the fort from the road. Of course, the Cardie additions to the ancient citadel didn't hurt none. There were other similar ridges, running north-south, a total length of six klicks. Fourth Battalion was fighting their way around, and up, the south side, while Third Battalion was storming southward down the north side.

By then, the starboys on the horses had let the battalion commanders know what was going on, so we had a mad rush up to the High Castle. Jemmy had expected us, after all, to come up from the road, if anywhere. So we really had surprised him coming out of the lake. It wasn't a lesson he'd soon forget.

* * *

Jemmy doesnt know how to surrender, see. So every centimetre of ground was paid for in a redshirt's life. Spoony was a little smarter, he'd taken to his heels down that ridge a long time ago. But Jemmy held firm. And the redshirts kept coming. By the time they'd rallied and driven the last of Jemmy down, Third Battalion was decimated and Second and Fourth were just as beat. But we'd done it.

Now we just had to hold it for two weeks until T-child could get itself out of the mud. Of course, Jemmy had other plans. He wanted the High Castle as much as he did. Not that I could blame him. You could see for kilometres up there.

Counter-attacks started coming early that evening. Jemmy unshrouded all over, Spoony kept trying to charge up the trench out of foxholes and tunnels. We knew there were tunnels down there. We just couldn't do much.

Second Battalion was shuttled that night into reserve back on the ship. T-child sent us shuttlecraft to handle the wounded, but they were escorted by Shadowfax-classers every klick back to the ship. Third Battalion was hardly in fighting shape, so it and First Battalion was ordered by Captain Valan to hold the vast space between the ridge and the lakeshore. It was about two klicks, I figured, at its widest point. Jemmy would try to pinch us off from that direction. That left Fourth in command of the ridge. And since we were First of the Fourth, we naturally drew all the choice assignments. Like, you know, patrol.

They let Marianne come out on a shuttle run. She had asked permission to see me get my pips. I don't know, looking back, it was probably a mistake for me to accept promotion-- but then, that's what they all say, isn't it? They did a full parade showing of our regiment in the High Castle's courtyard, right in front of the three barracks. We'd brought in two more, as well as one of the industrial replicators from the facility down lakeside. Actually, to be honest, it wasn't an industrial replication facility any longer. Corps of Engineers had been salivating at the prospect of getting their hands on one Jem'Hadar replicator-- and we could pass along nine, completely intact. That was how the facility got its name-- after we beamed out the replicator units, we took to calling it the Low Castle, since we fortified it and made it every bit as formidable a structure as its ridge-top counterpart.

But getting back to me. Marianne always said I was too modest, so I'm probably going to leave a lot out. They had the regiment present-- Hotel company and Able company woefully diminished by casualties as they were. Of Hotel, there were three survivors: Medic Sapurji, and Privates Filson and Potter. Sergeant Roseman, Corporal Geist, and eleven others were either dead or wounded. None were expected to return. And Able Company, which had really been nothing more than a front for the regiment's medical team, remained intact. They'd largely been doing their work behind the lines while Ronik had taken Hotel with him as a sort of personal retinue. He didn't want to miss any of the action, and sure enough, action was kind enough to hit such an easy target.

Another Lieutenant had gone down as well, so a Sergeant named T'Ralsa and I were both given our new rank insignia and notifications of field commission by Captain Valan himself, on behalf of Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev, Starfleet Command. There was applause. They catered. Nobody ate because Jemmy sensed something big was happening and launched a full-scale assault. For a redshirt, that's the highest honour: to be lauded by your friends and stormed by your enemies in the same night.

* * *

I got the night off as leave to celebrate with Marianne. Was hard to kiss her with my jaw swollen, so we stopped by sickbay first thing. We ended up in her quarters with an empty bottle of champagne and two heaps of uniform on the floor. I beamed back in that morning, for a meeting with Julia Hayden, Alri Magro and Tim Walters --my regimental staff. All three of them had been promoted-- Tim to Sergeant First Class, Alri to Corporal.

Hotel company, I folded into Delta. Rahim Sapurji took Rachel Pratt's place as medic, Larissa Potter and Wade Filson the places of David Emerson and the late Will Ulrich. I'd put Pratt and Emerson to my staff, one as our medic, the other as our "science officer". I knew damn well that Dave was no science officer, but it worked on paper. And it kept them together. I'd given Rachel and Dave the day's leave on T-child, though. They were all too appreciative for the time with each other. If there was one thing I understood, it was the importance of keeping two kids in love focused on each other, and not the ugliness around them.

But that was just where my attention had to be. "All right," I said. I pointed to Julia. "Defense." I pointed to Alri. "Offense." Then I pointed to Tim. "Reality." Then I went around to my desk --they gave me an office. My garrison... my office. Not much of a keep, but I made do. "Let's hear options. Don't argue with each other. Presume we can do everything until I get told otherwise."

"Recommend we strengthen our defenses by adding more tactical auto-phasers on the flank angles of the curtain walls," Julia began.

"They won't do any good against a concerted Cardassian attack. I say we mine the approaches." This was Alri's opinion.

Tim was a little more open-minded. "Do both, and use Jemmy spook-mines. I can fit whatever you want to those turrets. That replicator will hum out all the goods you need, boss. You want spook mines, I can even rig up the mine-layer transporter that Jemmy uses. And I'm laying out a sensor grid along the lower decks just in case anyone tries to dig themselves a hole up our backside."

"Do it. Mine that whole town if you have to. But make them sensitive to-- I don't know, human vitals."

"What about our Vulcan troops?" Julia asked.

"Yeah? What about 'em? They won't be going down that way anytime soon."

"I still think we should take the fight to them, sir," Alri insisted. "Does us no good to just stay here and wait for the end."

"Captain Valan disagrees," Julia pointed out.

"What of it? He can disagree all he wants as long as he's down in the Low Castle." Alri made a sort of disapproving grunt.

"Look," Tim added, "we can sit here and argue all day just the same as he can sit down there and... be logical-- what do Vulcans do in their spare time anyway?"

"I don't think they know either," I joked.

"Sir," Julia said with that Prime-Directive sneer. You know the one-- don't joke about them because they're different! They're the same way to you! So it goes.

"Yeah, yeah-- look, we're here. And I'm not hearing any concrete options. We either go down there to clean it out ourselves, or we mine the hell out of the ruins and let them walk into it. Neither are acceptable-- one creates a lot of destruction, the other potentially causes a lot of casualties. Either way, our rules of engagement are prohibitive. I need to know what we're prepared to do, and how."

"We had a tactic, at the Kervala monastery, back on Bajor. We created a single strong target, made the spoonheads force a confrontation there. Then we surrounded them and forced them to surrender."

"Except we have a bigger problem than that. We can't just abandon this position."

"Not suggesting that we do. The tactics might be a little different, but the strategic value? They're going to come after us, in order to break us. Only this Division has a strength we never did back in the Resistance: trained forces, huge numbers, good support."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"Don't mine all the approaches. Just the ones that we can't turn into kill zones. Set up a string of sub-fortifications along a trench, running down the ridge. With your sensor net in there, Sergeant."

"Should be no problem to lay that," Tim replied.

"And we can use the FaT units to cut the trenches," Julia added.

"Then we sit and wait. We know that the enemy is going to have to scale this ridge. They're not going to climb the hard way. They're going to come right at this point-- possibly from the air."

"I figured as much," Tim said. "I've got air-defense concealed on the four main points. Quad-linked phaser pulse-cannon. Designed just for that purpose."

"What are the odds of them using a scarab in atmosphere?"

"Roughly the same odds of them charging up that hill," Tim replied with a glint in his mechanical eye. "Don't worry. We're ready on the air defense. And those guns can be easily turned on ground forces."

"I want two more, emplacement style, on each side of the curtain wall."

"Consider it done." Tim went to replicate the guns, but stopped momentarily. "Including the back?"

"Especially the back. You know Jemmy."

"Oh yeah. Like I said. Two hours."

"Alri-- I want you to work with Sergeant M'Nurr of Echo, get down to business laying out trenches. And check with Sergeant Park, see if Delta can't give you a hand."

"Sure. I'll come back later and let you know what we've got."

"Right. Dismissed." Alri made her way out without saluting. The only one who still saluted was Julia, and then, I hadn't dismissed her yet.

"Now, then. Sit, Sergeant. I had been meaning to have a discussion with you."

"Sir," she said, and sat where Alri had been sitting. There was only the one chair-- I'd made a point of asking Tim to provide me with at least three more. Small office, and I was going to have even less room for myself.

"The other day, we had a bit of an... altercation."

"Yes, sir. I apologize, sir."

"Not good enough. I could have you court-martialed and escorted back to T-child's brig for this."

"Sir?" There was a quiver in Julia's voice. She wasn't the type to quiver.

"You know the regulations better than I do for assault on a senior non-commissioned officer. As I was at the time. A little fudging of the records, we could make it seem like you punched me after my promotion."

I stood up, and walked along the narrow space between the wall and my desk, to sit on the top of it, facing Julia. "And, let me be honest with you-- we need officers of your quality in the field, not jailed for high crimes."

"Sir, I can explain."

"You damn well better."

"I'm from Siralo, sir. Perhaps you've heard of it."

"Can't say I have, no."

"Women on that planet... learn at an early age not to take any nonsense from the men. And thus it's common for us, when insulted, to... strike back at the one who offended us."

"I see."

"To not do so is a sign of submission." She stopped, and looked up at me. "Sexual submission, sir."

"I got that, yes."

"And it's not anything to do with you, sir. I just... didn't appreciate your remark."

"Well, really, you could've done the Federation thing and simply addressed your concerns in a well-written letter to your Council Representative. Either way, it's better than... I don't even know what that would be-- the Klingon way?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I really am, but at the time I didn't even think. And I meant to address it with you, but you'd been gone all day yesterday."

"I'm aware of my inaccessibility, Corporal. You are aware that the reason that you still hold the rank of corporal is simply because I haven't written up your demerit yet."

"Yes, sir. I suspected as much, sir."

"I have no doubt you'll acquit yourself admirably through your continued service record, which, of course, remains impeccable."

"Thank you, sir. I really am sorry, sir. You must understand, though. It takes a lot for me to... lower myself before a man."

"Well, stand if you so choose."

"Not in that sense, sir. I mean in terms of place." She looked down. "I don't hold a very high opinion of men, you see."

"Including myself, I take it."

"I'm afraid so, sir. I know too well what men are about."

"And what is that, exactly?" I crossed my arms in anticipation. "Just, you know, so I might better know myself."

"I don't mean you, sir... I mean---"

"I certainly hope you aren't about to commence a dispute as to---"

"No, sir! What I mean is, it takes a lot for me to trust anyone who isn't female. And I do trust you, sir-- at least, the you I think you are. I want to believe that you're not like them."

"So does Marianne. You remember Petty Officer Second Class Leduc, don't you?"

"Of course, sir. We were... friends. We both really liked you. I mean, she liked you more than I did, of course. But I was at least as appreciative of what you did for her as she was."

"Thank you."

"I just don't know how to act around men, is all, sir. At least, not out of a Siralian context."

"And we can't be having that."

"No, sir."

"And-- if I may?"

"Sir?"

"A question."

"Certainly, sir."

"Did Marianne offer any... help?"

Julia looked confused. "Help, sir?"

"You know-- she did grow up on Luna. She might know a thing or two about how to handle men. Not that I'm speaking from experience."

"She did, sir, to be honest, but her ideas were... unsound."

"How so?"

"I just can't accept her idea of asserting control through displays of falsified affection."

"That sounded almost Vulcan, Corporal."

"No, but you know what I mean, sir."

"What... is the usual method of attracting a mate on Siralo, then?"

"You lose, and they mate with you."

I wasn't expecting that. "Forcibly?"

"No, sir. Well-- no. No, it's not really forcible. Not like they confine you. After all, you can always tell them that their challenge is unacceptable. You don't have to explain it to them, or even fight it out. Sometimes that's easier. You only accept the challenges of the ones you want to prove themselves. Otherwise, it's, you know... usually not good for them." She smiled ever so faintly at this. It unnerved me.

"You do know that Marianne and I are together, though, right?"

"Yes, sir!" Julia raised an open hand in protest. "I didn't mean it like that, sir! I meant that such a comment towards a woman was unacceptable, and I am so sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now, I need a mapping survey of the ridge."

"Already half-done, sir. Well, the centre portion, anyway."

"Very good. Proceed. See if you can't get---"

"Sorvik to Dixon."

"Dismissed." I let Julia find her way out. Lieutenant Sorvik was Commander Tulin's duty officer responsible for filtering orders from Battalion HQ to my attention. He was really specializing in busting my ass. "Sir."

"Long-range listening posts have detected a massive troop movement along the north-south road. We believe the Sixth Cardassian Order is moving into position to launch a full-scale assault on the town."

"What about the Jem'Hadar?"

"Intelligence reports from our tachyon field emitters indicate that the lower city is only sparsely held by Jem'Hadar soldiers. We believe they have been drawn back for use in a single, massive assault."

"Directly on this position."

"That is correct," Sorvik acknowledged.

"Well, I suppose we've got their attention. Our orders?"

"You are to hold your position until such a time as we are able to reinforce you."

"And if we can't do that, sir?"

"You are to place charges in the compound and destroy it."

"After we evacuate it?"

"That's correct."

I knew exactly what this meant, though. My regiment had just become designated the expendable unit. Sorvik was as good as signing our "regret to inform you" notes for mom and pop. I wondered who would qualify as my next of kin.

That was what got me thinking about Marianne. I mean, it wasn't like I hadn't before. I think everyone does that. They start thinking about a girl as more than just a random occurrence, and they start thinking about possible ends: sex, marriage, what the kids will look like, a little farm out of history's way. No one ever thinks of a break-up when they see someone new. No one ever thinks of divorce, or death. The Federation provides for the good, not the bad.

So it didn't even occur to me then that anything could happen to either Marianne or myself. I mean, yeah, it was a war, but I wanted to believe otherwise. Part of me felt she was already beyond its grasp, on the bottom of that lake. But the rest of me couldn't believe that. After all, war had a long reach. So I didn't rest easy-- not even slightly. Sure, it was nice to pretend, count on a miracle, but I had to think in the present tense.

Something happens to a man when he's faced with an improbable chance of survival. The things he shouldn't do become the things he might never do. After all, what do you have to lose if you're not going to live to tell?

That was the situation which faced me. I thought to myself, you know, I might never see Marianne again. Things started racing through my mind. Desertion, for instance. Marriage. Mutiny. Surrender. All of them were now as improbable as death.

That was something which I also thought about. After all, I was an officer of the line now. Like Marianne, screaming an apology, they were going to be following my every move. So if I fled, if I seemed to give up hope, I couldn't very well turn around and expect them to have any in their hearts. After all, they regarded me as one of them, and yet also a man in command. So it was a bit hard for me to do anything other than play the role.

The regiment got to work, and I pressed them as hard as I could. After all, I wanted to survive. I wanted all of them to survive. When I went around, I told them, dig that trench deeper-- get that phaser-cannon set up-- raise those shields higher-- more mines in that cluster-- I don't want anything but the best work you can give. I want you all there at my wedding, some day when the uniforms are dress, when they smell of something other than breached waste packets and sweat, when they're a solid sheen of black and silver, not a dusty mess.

Someday, I told them, I'm inviting the whole regiment to my wedding. Someday, when Jemmy and Spoony were lying side by side in their grave, when it was me and Marianne on the aisle, I wanted them all to be there. I didn't want to leave anyone on Kalandra. And I didn't intend to.

We were gonna be heroes either way. We'd make a spectacular sacrifice, or we'd make a spectacular headline. Either way, we were in the position of writing our own legend. And I wanted them all in the last words of the story, something to the tune of 'happily together to the end of their days'.

Little did I realize how much the events in those days to come would matter to me. Nor did it occur to me that no one else would even notice. After all, they tell you, you're a Starfleet officer, you're a hero. Nobody told me that the greatest heroes are the ones nobody remembers in songs, and stories. But then, what else am I doing here, right?


	5. Jemmygrad

The days to come were mostly tense. We spent a long time with patrols out digging zig-zag trenches down the ridge. They met at right angles to each other, meaning that even if one trench fell, the next would be viable. They were also forty-five degrees off from the roadway, so that if Jemmy tried to rappel his way up, we could still shoot at him just the same as if he took the road into the High Castle.

Then we manned the position. I had them filter into position after intensive tachyon sweeps. We accomplished all of this, somehow, in just under forty consecutive hours of work. Fox took the right side, Gold the centre, and Bravo the left. Echo was on garrison, while Delta patrolled. I can't tell you how many of those minutes I spent, in my office, with my eyes on the Big Board (as we took to calling it), watching every move. No casualties. Jemmy had backed right off.

Tim had installed sensory listening posts all over the place, when Echo was out on patrol through the lower city. The trenches were manned, from the skirmishing points on the floor to the pulse phaser cannon emplacements at the top of the ridge. No challenge was made. The place was empty. The calm was numbing. Even our subterranean listening posts couldn't detect a damn thing.

I personally think this was their plan all along. I had everyone checked by Dr. Singh for changeling infiltration. Nothing. I kept in touch with Sorvik by comms. Not a word. Not a shot fired. No mines. No goo. They knew exactly where we were. They knew exactly what we were up to. And nothing. For a very long time.

We knew that at some point beyond what we'd taken to referring to as Three Point Turn lay the Sixth Order. What they were waiting for, we didn't know, nor did we have the numbers to contest them. Command intended for them to meet us, in Jemmygrad. Maybe they had the same idea in their own positions. It was a tense couple days. We did what we could to keep from freaking right out.

That night I had Tim replicate us some of the finest steaks available and told everyone to bring it into the Castle or the trenches. One company on the left, one on the right, one on garrison, two down the centre, and one in reserve. I told the sergeants to leave the seconds in command and join me in my office, where all six of them, as well as myself, Tim, Alri and Julia sat down to a well-deserved feast.

"To Starfleet," I said. "For giving us the chance to make the Two-Oh-Second the pride of the Marine Corps, and for giving the First of the Fourth the opportunity to make it proud."

"To Starfleet," came the reply. And so we ate. Talk was minimal. We all hadn't tasted meat this good for months. Tim really went all out modifying that replicator.

Afterwards, Julia went with Tim to check the trenches and just generally look around-- neither of them could escape the edge of the blade we were all hovering upon. It was odd, then, to realize that all of us in that one place were from the same Federation, but so diverse. Price, from Chicago. Pelletier, from Montreal. Bellamy, from the former Demilitarized Zone, one of the so called Federation Loyalists. M'Nurr, a Caitian. Welsh, who was from some backwater planet or another. Alri Magro, a Bajoran. And me. The kid from Riel, a tiny village on Setlik III.

Two conversations, really, were going on afterwards. Alri and M'Nurr were talking to Bellamy about their times in trenches. M'Nurr had served as a combat engineer along the Zone, helping to relocate villagers and their stuff. Bellamy had willingly left, but Alri had taken a different tack. I didn't know if she was Maquis-- but then, she didn't know if I'd been Maquis, so we had that just about even.

On the other side of the room, Welsh, Pelletier and Price were getting on real close, talking about Jemmy, trying to figure him out. They were also trading stories. On one side of the room I had the results of Federation policy towards the Cardassians. On the other, I had the Dominion War --not yet unfolded to the point of being policy.

All of a sudden, everyone went quiet all at once. Nobody spoke for a moment. They all looked around to see what everyone else was talking about.

It was Price who spoke. "Back home, we call this a sign that an angel's passing by."

Everyone chuckled for a moment. Then I added, "way things are going to go, I'd appreciate if she stuck around."

There was another chuckle, more somber, that followed. Everyone had suddenly grown introspective, it seemed, like just for a moment, the presence of a supernatural --or superstitious-- entity had drawn all of us into our own minds. I know the angel I was thinking about. Part of me was glad she wouldn't be there when the fighting started.

My commbadge broke the silence. "Walters to Dixon."

"Dixon. Go ahead."

"You better come out and see this, boss."

Naturally, I didn't hesitate. I went outside and crossed the front gate. Overhead there was a massive front of clouds, charged with electrostatic energy, which was breaking in every direction-- including down. Tim came walking up to me.

"This installation is grounded, right?"

"Complete EM shielding. Otherwise Jemmy could toast our computers."

"Sure. And how are they holding up?"

"Just great." I could see the purple horizon of the planet-- six, seven, eight bolts of white lightning crashing across the surface.

"What's that black spot over there?" I asked. It was the first time I'd paid any attention to it.

Julia had come walking up, and raised a set of snoopers to her eyes. "No, no," Tim said, raising his arm. "Lemme see." He closed his organic eye and peered through the Borg one. "I count... two hundred and eighty-eight Cardassian soldiers. Scanning the EM band--- and a legion of Jemmy. Anywhere from sixty-four to seventy-two."

"Sixty-four-- how can you be so precise?" Julia asked.

"I'm counting their ranks. I think there's ---yeah. Seventy-two."

"To our seventy-some redshirts," I mused. "Oh boy."

"Correction-- sir? There's a second formation."

"Cardies?"

"Reckon so, sir. Same twenty-four-by-twelve formation. And I'm picking up Jemmy skirmishing parties ranged along the side-- counter-ambush formations. They're shrouded, but I can see through that no problem on the right band."

"And there could be more lines beyond that horizon."

"Ayup."

"Lovely." I turned to Julia. "Tell me those electrical storms are going to interfere with our communications."

"No, sir. We shouldn't have a problem."

"Get on the comms and advise that son of a bitch Sorvik what he's getting us into."

"He'll want to talk directly to you, sir."

"Sure, but if he knows what's best for him, he'll talk to you." I was completely furious at this point. We were being left out to die. We didn't have a chance in hell. I knew this. We all knew this. After all, logic dictated that a minimal force should hold the line for as long as possible before a massive counteroffensive swept forward out of... where? What were they going to do-- draw untold hundreds of soldiers into the city, only to--- to what? Were they going to drop torpedoes? These damned Vulcans weren't telling us a damned thing.

"Tim," I said. "Commence transporter jamming."

"Already done. We've also set a couple tricks we're planning on turning down there. Those people don't stand a chance."

"I hope you're right, Tim." I stepped away from him, and went back inside to bring our sergeants up to speed.

It was to be the hedgehog drill, redux. We weren't to hold the trenches. If they wanted them bad enough, they could have them. And the charges we'd laid in them. There was only one way up that ridge. Well, to be true, there were three ways up, but all of them were going to be paved with ketracel-white, if I had anything to do with it.

And you know why I was so angry? Love. Not love of Marianne, though that was part of it. Love of my comrades, my brothers and sisters and hermaphroditic siblings in arms. I had to believe that we were fighting for the cause, for the uniform, for the Fleet. But the Fleet was letting me down seriously. And I didn't know how much of a fight I could bring to Jemmy and Spoony when my faith in what I was sending people to die in the name of was wavering.

* * *

The electrical storm went on all night. So did the forced march. They came up in three columns, all Jemmy-sat on their march. One column went down Three Point Turn in one direction, towards the right flank of the ridge. The other two went marching down the road, their every formation a parade, right past the road leading up the gate to the fort.

Just as they were about to come within firing range, the pulse phaser cannons on the top of the ridge began to whine. Tim had modulated them to use tachyon tracer beams, and they'd picked up movement. Something fell. Then a cluster of Jemmy unshrouded, triple-timing it up the ridge, right into their line of fire. Delta was down the middle on one side, Echo on the other. Jemmy didn't stand much of a chance, though we had to clip some of them two and three times. Alphas. Tough bastards.

The forward Cardie formation hustled it into the ruins, making their way for the right side of the ridge, while the one at the base of the road leading up to the fort held back and swept out in a line, firing up the way towards us. The right-side formation also started to fire. The turret guns on the High Castle picked off a couple of them. Before we knew it, guns were opening up all over the place. Phaser fire lit up the purple clouds above.

I was on the battlements at the time, which is how I saw all this. Gold and Bravo were on garrison, and of course, I couldn't trust the Big Board to tell me what the combat was. It was something I needed to see it for myself. Otherwise I couldn't lead it effectively.

Fox held the line to the left, while Chicago had taken a few casualties.

"BRAVO!" I ordered. "TWO SQUADS! One LEFT! One RIGHT! Move, MOVE!" Bravo broke from the wall-- Welshie took his squad in the direction of Price's Chicago company, while Corporal Nichols led his troops towards Pelletier's Fox company.

I looked down to see Sergeant Park holding the line. Behind him, half-concealed in a trench, was Sholar with a regular pulse-phaser rifle, picking off Cardies on one knee.

"Sorvik to Dixon!" my commbadge exclaimed.

"Sir. Dixon."

For a Vulcan, Sorvik sure had something up his green-blooded behind. "Lower your transport dampening field immediately."

"Is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?"

"I beg your pardon? I gave you a direct order, Sergeant! Lower your transport dampening field.

"Is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise," I repeated, then mechanically added, "sir."

"I have given you a direct order! You will comply immediately.

"I don't take orders from balls of goo. You don't like it? Go back to the Gamma Quadrant. Dixon out."

I stood, watching our flanks holding in place. We'd fallen back to the second zigzag on the left flank; the third was holding strong on the right. Down the centre, Delta and Echo were making me proud.

"Tulin to Lieutenant Dixon." Again with the commbadge.

"Go ahead, Commander."

"You have disobeyed a direct order from your commanding officer. I will be compelled to take disciplinary action upon the conclusion of this battle, should it be undertaken in a victorious fashion."

"Beggin' the Commander's pardon, but---" I ducked as a beam of phaser fire banked off the shields around the High Castle. I looked at Tim, and the expression on his face told me what I'd feared: there but for the grace of a shield perimeter went I.

"Beggin' the Commander's pardon, but we are a little busy up here."

"Lower your transport dampening field."

"Just as soon as I get the correct countersign, Commander. Is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise?"

"One moment." I could hear a rustling noise, then came the response, without any inflection at all. "This gun's for hire, even if we just dance within the dark." I waited a moment. "Correction-- even if we're just dancing in the dark. I repeat, even if we're just dancing in the dark."

"Thank you, sir." I nodded to Tim, and the jammers went offline.

* * *

It was about that time that I noticed that the line had broken down the centre. Delta and Echo were scrambling out of the trenches into pursuit.

"Dixon to Park--- get your section back in those trenches NOW, SERGEANT!"

"Sir! Yes, sir!" I saw Park come to a complete stop and whistle aloud. He signalled back to the trenches. It was all Jemmy needed to see. Three bullets came whistling out of what I can only figure was a shrouded pillbox, taking Park directly in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

"Dixon to M'Nurr!"

"Sirrrr!"

"Get your section back in the trenches!"

"Returning now, sir!" Without a word, M'Nurr turned and scrambled back into position, leaving Park dead on the field.

"Boss?" I turned, and saw what Tim was calling my attention to-- Chicago was up on the third zigzag, without any of their trenches blown.

"They're not gonna make it."

"That's not what I meant. Look." He pointed down the road, where phalanx after phalanx of Spoony came bearing down on us.

"What about Jemmy?"

"Look down there." We could see that Third and First Regiments were being pinched in by Jem'Hadar assaults, holed back fortification by fortification, inch by inch. We were holding the high ground. If we broke, they broke. If they broke, we were dead.

"I'm also detecting about a hundred more Jemmy in the surrounding area."

"Put some fire on the area from where the shots came that killed Sergeant Park."

"Already done, sir. We wasted those Jemmy. Some kind of portable shroud plate. They set it up and fire through it. I'd seen them, I just didn't know they'd used them in combat."

"It's Jemmy. He doesn't do anything else."

"True that."

"Hayden! Pratt! Emerson! Alri! Form on me. Tim-- this barracks is yours. Alpha company-- non-medical elements, form on me! McClellan-- Johnston-- you're with me, too! We have to hold that line!"

All of the redshirts I barked at took their positions in a running formation, staggered three by three, with me in the centre. "Let's GO!"

We ran out the gate and down into the lines. I found Welsh and Price together, in one trench.

"What the hell you doin' here, sir?" Welsh demanded. "Get yourself out of here!"

"No way. We hold it out!"

"There's too many. The Jemmy elements are sweeping up the trench-- they've got good covering fire-- and the Cardies are---"

"You hit, Welshie?"

"Yes, sir-- two rounds."

"MEDIC!" I looked over, and I realized that Price was already dead. His eyes were still open, gazing up at Welsh, so I hadn't even noticed. Pratt came running up. "Get the Sergeant back to the fort!"

"Yes, sir!" Emerson hadn't left her side. They carted him up together.

"And Pratt! Get a medical detail down here, NOW! We have casualties to evac!"

"Sir!" She carried on.

I went down into the trench, and made my way along until I came across two privates firing furiously, cursing all kinds of foul language at the Spoons. I recognized the two of them-- Dave Sicotti and Lucy Helms, "Helms Deep" as they'd called her for reasons I'd rather not get into.

"Private!" I called.

"What the hell you want?" He looked down and saw me ducking my head down, the two rank pips flashing in the electrical storm. "Beg pardon, sir! Spoons! Spoons all over the damn place! We gotta get 'em dead!"

"Who's in charge here?" I asked.

Sicotti looked at me, incredulous. "Ain't you?"

"I mean in this trench, Private!"

"Like I said, sir, ain't you?"

"All right--- sweep down-- HELMS! Get in gear-- we're moving."

"Sir!" I looked back and saw Roger McClellan and Sydney Johnston were right behind me.

"You break across that line, and take that corner-- Sicotti-- you roll in below her-- both of you shoot anything not in black. Johnston-- McClellan-- covering fire, on my mark, then you move! We clear?"

"SIR!" they all said.

"Covering FIRE!" I threw myself over the trench's upper embankment, turning loose and cutting down a couple spoonheads that came up to shoot back over us. "NOW!" I signalled. "Move, MOVE!" I pushed McClellan, hard, and got him through to that trench. Johnston stayed put, but I saw someone come up and shove her. It was Alri. I didn't have time to recognize her. I charged through and followed Sicotti down the length of the trench, shooting at the Spoons that tried to bank over it. They were leaping over us, and we just shot them out of the sky.

"Spread out! Spread OUT!" They distributed themselves among the trench at my command. "Hold here for thirty seconds! Return fire!" I turned to Alri. "What are you doing here?"

"You brought me out with you, sir."

"Sure. Good to have you with us. Got it in you to take down a couple spoons?"

"I've been waiting years, sir."

"All right." I tapped my commbadge. "Dixon to Walters. What's the sit?"

"Sit is not good, sir. Jemmy bugs on the way in."

"No," was all I could say.

"Reckon on two, maybe three of them? They're comin' to the Castle."

"You ready for 'em?"

"Is the word given?"

"Take 'em out."

"Aye, sir. Walters out."

"SQUAD!" I yelled after I checked my rifle. "Next trench line!"

"Sir! Helms is hit!"

"MEDIC! Sicotti-- you stay with her. McClellan?" I looked over, but half of Johnston's face was burned off from a point-blank phaser shot, and McClellan was wounded in the shoulder. "Sicotti-- get these three out of here! Alri-- you good to go?"

"You and me, sir. Let's do it."

"No point. We need--- we need to cross over."

"Cross over?"

"To the other trench. On the far side."

"You're insane." She gave me a look of disbelief, then a mad smile. "I love it. Let's go."

"On three. One---"

There was no point. Alri broke the trench and was on her way already. I gave her hell as I sprang up to follow. Fire came from both directions-- trenches that hotly disputed, I couldn't blame them. Nothing caught me, or her. She opened fire into a length of trench before us, clearing it out with a number of pulse blasts, then dove in. I touched down just after her, the white-hot pulverized quartz of the rock burning my right cheek. I got up in a hurry, and turned to check my back.

Propped up against the wall, with her torso shorn in two, was Julia Hayden. She was already dead, probably one of the first to fall. I did a quick guess, based on where she was standing. Spoony came up over that ridge, and she was standing on a corner to better command the action-- easy target.

"Prophets' names," I heard Alri cuss behind me. She'd seen it, too.

"We don't have time-- come on." I banked around the corner in a crouch, phaser rifle up, trying to focus ahead, not behind. All clear. I moved in, and Alri followed. We stopped for a second to recover.

"Cover me," I said. Alri fired off a couple shots as I slapped my commbadge. "Dixon to Sorvik--- Jesus H. Christ, sir, we're getting killed up here! Can't you do anything?"

"Negative," came the reply. "We are holding our own below the ridge. We must ask you to do the same, for now."

"Aye, sir. Dixon out." I tapped it, then again. "Dixon to Walters. Tim, how far out are those scarabs?"

"Three minutes?"

"Get Gold down on the right flank. Have them position at the top of the trench line. And... ready the charges to blow the second and third levels of the line."

"Right flank? Both sides?"

"You heard me."

"I count we're in the second line, sir," Alri advised me.

"Then we'd better move."

Alri broke into a run, and I followed. I hustled up and around, one corner, a hundred metres dash, another corner, another hundred metres. I could hear the Spoons closing.

"NOW, Tim!" I grabbed Alri's legs and threw her down as the concussion shook the whole side of the ridge. Everything felt shattered, and I couldn't hear anything but a single high-pitched whine for fifteen seconds. I popped up to fire, but I couldn't hear anything, or see anything for the massive cloud of black smoke, rendered electric blue with every flash of lightning. I helped Alri to her feet, and we made our way along trench after trench. It was then that I noticed Dave Emerson had taken one in the arm-- sheared it clean off at the shoulder.

"Alri--" I pointed. "One of ours. Let's go."

"We can't carry him up a trench, sir."

"Over the top. Let's go."

"Now?"

"While there's time. I said, let's go." She grabbed his legs and I carried him, his left arm around my shoulder. I jumped up to the top of the trench, and we ran along the edge of the road, while the auto-phasers continued to fire past us, into targets of opportunity.

It was about then that I saw Rachel Pratt working on Helms. She didn't look up. Two other medics were with her. I didn't draw her attention. I don't think I have to. I saw her hands slow for a moment, a silence between her and the other medics, what they used to call back in Chicago the sign that an angel was passing, if you buy into Pricey's ideas. But Price was dead.

I saw Sicotti and yelled to him. "Help get this man back into the Castle!" Alri put his legs down, as Emerson seemed to be recovering from the shock, and Sicotti helped him back up the hill. I ran over to the medics. "Get these people inside. Now."

"All right, you heard the Lieutenant, let's move!" This from Pratt, surprisingly.

I got back in the line, and went right up to Bellamy. "Anything?"

"I don't know what these cannon are firin' at, sir. I think they're just shooting blanks."

"Naw. Jemmy's down in that valley giving Third trouble. Reckon we should help out?"

"Can't hurt. GOLD! Form up-- right flank! Firing positions, DOWN!"

Gold company was as good as the word-- formed up, crossed the road, and took to firing positions along the far right, looking down into the valley below. We all let loose with everything we had. Didn't matter if we were desecrating artifacts. Jemmy might be down there. And that was a far sight better than nothing.

"Walters to Dixon-- them Jemmy--- they're just about in firing range-- I'm gonna close me up the gate."

"Do it," I said. I looked up, to where I could hear the whine of the ion engines coming over the horizon, the scarabs coming in to attack our position. One of them was clipped by what I thought at first was lightning. But it went straight.

"Look!" I heard Alri exclaim. She was pointing behind where we were firing. It was Thunderchild. She was dripping wet, but she was airborne. And she was taking exception to any Jemmy bugs crossing her redshirted kids down in the mud. A quantum torpedo whistled overhead, as did another pair of phaser beams. The second and third went down, one up in smoke, the other with a clipped engine-- spinning back out into the very lake T-child had nestled herself into these long two weeks.

But I thought about it. Hadn't been two weeks. Must've only been... ten days. I turned to Alri. "How long have we been here?"

"Feels like forever. I'm no good with dates."

"Yeah." Turned out it had been ten days. Those engineers had triple-timed it when they'd heard the Sixth Order was coming for us.

Now, to be fair, there was more of the Sixth Order all over the planet, in garrison positions that we mostly took out from orbit after we evacuated Jemmygrad. Rather than damage the scenery any further, we took everything with us that we could find. Jemmy and Spoony bodies, we dressed and buried. Prisoners were hustled aboard shuttlecraft and taken to the brig. Wounded soldiers, we treated as our own, though Jemmy didn't take too kindly to that. We lost two medics that way. Turns out they'd only been given enough white to last the night, and though you'd never know by the sky, it was after six in the evening. We'd been out on the lines for twelve hours. Jemmy was getting savage. And so were we.

I counted up the dead and wounded. Among the NCOs, we lost Price and Nichols both from Chicago, Park from Delta, and Fitzgerald from Echo. Bravo had three dead, four wounded. Charlie --we stopped calling it Chicago after we recovered Price's body-- had four down, including Helms, but none killed. Delta lost three, including Park, and Echo had four down-- seven dead and four wounded from my old section. Fox had one dead, one wounded, and Gold had taken two casualties-- McClellan and Johnston, both of whom made complete recoveries, even though Johnston was going to be sitting out the rest of the war in a facial reconstruction hospice.

As for my own command company --Able company-- we'd lost Hayden, and Emerson was wounded. We'd also lost one of the medics, a John Xavier, to the Jemmy.

That night, we were all back aboard T-child, on our way up to high orbit. We passed through the Seventh Fleet's horses and shuttlecraft, on their way down to plant the reinforcements, and the Federation flag, on Kalandra. The entire Sixth Order would eventually come to surrender, and Gul Dolan, their commander, would be assassinated by the changeling we knew they had operating on Kalandra before he was taken into custody. But that was all yet to come in the future.

What was not, however, was any mention of this beyond an also-dead headline on the Federation's bylines and relay stations. You see, the day Jemmygrad held was the same day as the First Battle of Chin'Toka-- the Third Fleet and Tenth Fleet making a charge against a heavily defended Cardassian world strategically important, complete with full Klingon and Romulan support. The Romulans surprised me-- I hadn't even known they were in the war. None of us did. We'd been down on Kalandra for the better part of the year-- something like six or seven months. Funny how it'd felt like days.

Looking back, there was a lot of other stuff that happened. I can't even remember it all from Kalandra, mostly because so much of it was tedious boredom and empty patrol. Duty was as important to us as breathing-- and the latter meant the former. We did what we had to do on Kalandra. We lost a lot of good people. But the war wasn't over. At least, not yet.


	6. Kira

There's a picture-- you've probably seen it. The day we got back to Deep Space Nine. Captain Sisko himself asked Admiral Ross if he could give us our medals. Me, Tim, Alri and all the sergeants --even those no longer among us physically-- were given the Order of Starfleet. Yeah, it sounds shiny, but it meant nothing. First off, everyone thought it was a photo-op for the Emissary. And second, all it meant was that we were getting more stuff to hang on our chests come dress-uniform time. I got me another pip, too-- half-filled. Lieutenant Commander Sean Patrick Dixon. Had a certain ring to it, I thought.

We all got a month leave on Bajor. We took out a place in Rekantha province, about the same time as the Dominion was talking the Breen into the war. The whole regiment bunkered down there. They weren't going to break us up. No regiment that well adjusted could split now. Went against Starfleet's way. We couldn't conduct this war back to front. We became closer than ever after Kalandra. We took to calling it "Big K", or "Jemmygrad". Corny started writing songs and stuff, making us --me, Julia, Marianne, Tim, Alri-- all out into heroes. Passed the time. We were just glad for green fields that didn't have Jemmy in them.

But joy only went so far-- duty carried the rest of the way. We shipped a lot of bodies home. I stopped counting the letters I wrote. I stopped counting the tears I shed. God, how I wanted them all back. Even the ones I hadn't known that well. McClellan had been in my lines for all of a month before we touched down on Kalandra. Will Ulrich hadn't even lasted a week. He volunteered.

Marianne came with us. She told her CO, in no uncertain terms, that either she got the time off or I'd be spending my leave at a starbase-- whatever one they chose to send her to for detention after they charged her for absence without leave. I pulled some strings with the T-child command crew. It wasn't like she was chief of anything.

Didn't realize then, but it was the second time I saved Marianne's life. The Dominion came back at the Seventh and Third Fleet, with their new friends the Breen. T-child was there. Didn't make it back. Breen weapons crippled her, and she had to abandon ship. A hundred dead. Mostly from the lower decks. And one less Akira-classer in the Fleet.

Defiant went down there, too. Sisko was there-- he gave the abandon-ship order on Defiant. He was a nice guy: nice enough to me, anyway. We talked a bit, at the reception after the ceremony. He mostly talked about AR-558 and a couple other worlds he'd seen combat on, trying to trade taps with me. Seemed like a decent guy to me, even if he was a starboy. If I'd known then that he was going to buy it on Bajor, I would've said more. I just wanted to make my face to Admiral Ross, meet Worf, shake hands with their Chief O'Brien, who'd been on the Rutledge. That sort of thing. After all, Marianne had a celebration all our own waiting for me, and I wouldn't have missed that for all the admirals in the Alliance.

I tried to get in touch with Renalla when her homeworld fell. She was a Lieutenant Commander herself now, I saw in her duty record, out with the 313th, a battalion commander. But she was off on classified duties. No word as to how to contact her.

They rustled the Two-Oh back into service, though, aboard Challenger, before long. We had fresh ranks, so they put us in training on DS9 for three weeks. Challenger was in for some repairs-- she'd made it out of Chin'toka, limping on impulse with a Klingon escort. Klingons were doing all the fighting now, so they didn't mind us using a Galaxy-classer as our personal training ground.

The Galaxy-classer changed a lot over the course of the war. Time was they were cruise ships with rings of phasers. But now they were talking about fitting warp nacelles and a smaller reactor into the saucer section, talking about additional crew accommodations and dedicated use as a troopship. They modified the emergency transporter rooms into troop transports, changed the huge officers' quarters into more sensible double-bunked marine housings. I talked them into letting Marianne into the troop transporter staff. She had experience, after all.

We made two drops. One was a cleanup operation against elements of Tenth Order. We lost three of the new people. I tightened up operations. David Emerson got back in the line-- he requested Fourth Battalion specifically. I put him in at Sergeant First Class. His new bionic arm was just as good as the old. Rachel Pratt was his medic. I made sure they got kept together.

It was about that time, before Challenger got orders, that I ran into Colonel Kira on the Promenade after duties. She was linked --pardon the pun-- arm in arm with Constable Odo.

She recognized me first, admittedly. "Lieutenant Commander Dixon," she said to me. She'd been at the reception when I'd gotten my third pip, but she'd stepped out early. Something involving a holodeck or something.

"Major--- Colonel?"

"That's right. I remember you. The day we took this station back, you led the way back into Ops."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You were just a Sergeant then?"

"I was, yes. Figured I'd go out of my way to make you proud, ma'am."

"I'm glad to hear that." She smiled and walked on. Then she stopped, as did Odo. "If you're ever by this station again... let me know."

"Reckon I'd be proud to do so, ma'am. Pleasure seein' you again." I caught hell from Walters for being late for my own briefing, but it was worth it.

* * *

Something big was in the works. They'd suspended additional repairs on Challenger to get us back in the fight. Our recruits were barely trained, young, wet behind the ears-- the kind to die easy in combat and not be remembered if not for their DNA. Word had it the war was grinding on, slow like. We were going to make one last drive. Cardassia Prime --and nothing less-- was our objective.

We trained on Challenger for the better part of a month on everything: Spoon psychology, crowd control, occupation duties, partisan fighting tactics, winning hearts and minds made easy-- the whole kit. Our drop was to be in the city of Kirlar, on the southern continent. Kirlar was a big city, home to the Sixth Order once upon a paper moon. That was half the reason they wanted us hustled back into service: they wanted the heroes of Jemmygrad to better pacify the population. Funny how they remembered us when they needed us.

Our orders were specifically to link up with elements of the surrounding divisions in order to form a cohesive defense. We were also to provide support for the Corps of Engineers. Cardassia was pretty much devastated-- word had it their old boss, Legate Damar, now citizen Damar, was striking back against the Dominion. Spoony was on our side by the time we got there.

Our beam-in point was along a street in Kirlar. Marianne did the honours-- I insisted. We dropped on Cardassia, phaser rifles out. Soon we slung them over our shoulders. The Founder had ordered Jemmy to stand down earlier that morning. Spoony wasn't offering any resistance. Everything was over on Cardie Prime but the crying and the reconstruction.

We made one last patrol around the blocks of Kirlar, that godawful Spoon architecture jutting out all over the place. Alri was walking next to me, and her jaw was hanging open as she gawked upwards.

"What is it, Alri?"

"If my parents knew they'd given birth to the generation of Bajorans that would one day walk in conquest down these streets..."

"Conquest?" I asked. "No, no. We're here to help these people. Not prevail over them. That's our way."

"I know, but you understand."

"Of course I do." I put my hand on her shoulder. "All right. There's no need for this. Let's break out, teams of two-- Alri, you're with me --and see if we can't find someone in charge of civil administration."

I walked with Alri over a bridge that connected Kirlar to its nearest city, Darlok. Darlok was famous for its ties to the Obsidian Order, the same Obsidian Order that had ceased to exist after their disastrous raid on the Founders' homeworld.

I tapped my commbadge. "Anyone out there?"

I got six or seven replies. Mostly starboys listening too hard from above.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Sean Dixon of the First Battalion, 202nd Division. Captain Tulin? Anyone?"

"Sean?" I recognized that voice. "Sean Patrick Dixon? From Setlik III?"

"Uh..."

"Sean, it's Renalla."

I smiled.

"Sir?" Alri inquired.

"Ren," I said, ignoring Alri. "Ren, it's you?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"Where are you? Give me directions."

"Okay."

Twenty minutes later, Alri and I were led to a majestic courtyard, even by Cardie standards. We had walked up the stairs, and into the downright palatial foyer, when two redshirts came up to check us as changelings. They identified us, and led us into a room. A chair turned, and there she was-- dark hair and eyes as ever, sitting fair in that light face.

"Ren. Where are we?"

"Enabran Tain's house."

"Get out." She lifted a bottle, and I recognized it by the twisted shape. "Since when are you into kanar?"

"Since it's free."

"Now, we're not supposed to be drinking straight without--"

"It's all right," a voice said as he stepped from the shadows. A Cardie. All smiles.

"And you are?" I had my hand on my sidearm.

"Just a plain, simple tailor. And you're all guests... in my house."

Ren, Alri and I weren't there long. We had a drink and left. I never did catch that Cardie's name, though the look on his face has always haunted me.

* * *

"So, how's the war treated you?" she asked me.

"Pretty well. My adjutant, Alri Magro."

"You're a Betazoid," Alri asked.

"That's right. Sean and I were... close. Once."

"Yes, well---"

"Marianne?" Renalla asked.

"What about her?"

"I thought so."

"I... don't understand," Alri protested.

"It's all right. I can't order you out of my head now, can I?"

"No." She smiled at me, and then sent to me a few things I'd missed. She'd been with the 313th, commissioned and spent eighteen months at the Academy in old-fashioned training. They'd wanted to send me off for that, but there wasn't much of an Academy left by that point. Ren had just left on USS Nevada when the Breen attacked San Francisco. Nevada had put her back in the line on some planet, and when her CO bought it, she was promoted since no one else wanted the risk. She hadn't changed a bit. Still an open book.

"It was good seeing you again," I said. "Maybe we'll see each other again."

"I'd like to think so," she replied. "But one can never say. We live in uncertain times." Then she walked off.

We were on police actions across Cardassia until V-C day. Then we were to hand things over to a provisional government, and pack it in. The Two-Oh-Second was disbanded, and with it, so was most of the Marine Corps placed on inactive status.

A week later, I called Colonel Kira to ask if she knew a nice place on Bajor we could get married, in a ceremony. She set the whole thing up for us, actually, with a little help from Alri. We had a whole Bajoran monastery to ourselves for the ceremony, presided over by a none other than Admiral William Ross, Supreme Allied Commander, Cardassian Sector Reconstruction Force. Marianne's folks came all the way from Luna to see their little girl marry her dashing marine. So'd her whole family, actually-- they filled a whole Bajoran transport that Alri had commissioned on our behalf. Tim Walters was my best man, Alri was Marianne's maid of honour; and on Stardate 58312, Marianne and I took vows that lasted longer than the armistice.

* * *

Within two months, see, the Breen have started acting up again. Sure, they'd signed on at first, but as soon as the Fifth Fleet came out to see how things were holding up, old Breeny decided he was game for a rematch. The party was over. Our work had yet to be done.

You see, reason I wanted to get this debrief done was mostly because I want it on the record. The achievements of our everyday redshirts in this war have, to this point, been completely underrated. Breeny lives on cold planets. Very cold planets. It's going to be a long, hard fight in the days and months to come. They're bringing the 202nd back online in a week's time, and we're to ready to ship out for Breen country.

I can't tell you how angry it makes me, knowing that us redshirts are going to head in there and have to do the ground-pounding while someone who holds a geosynchronous orbit gets the medals for us. Many of us aren't going to live to see day when peace returns to the Federation. And I wanted it down, in writing.

I'm fully ready to give my life for the cause, for the Fleet, and for the uniform. So's Alri, Renalla, Walters, all of us. We're not going to give up. As long as there's a peace to be won, war may be our only hope. And that hope isn't worth a flash in the pan if we don't recognize that victory has a price that we redshirts have paid with our very lives, on every ball of rock that strategy and Starfleet Command deemed it logical to take.

Last thing I want to say. I just found out this morning that my wife won't be coming with us on to Breen space. Turns out that she wouldn't be alone in that uniform if she did. And I suppose I just wanted my daughter to know what we went through in order to give her a Federation to call her own. I would gladly go out there and lay down my life if it meant that a Federation lived on beyond my years, a Federation that recognized all branches of Starfleet-- not just the starboys, a Federation that looked after my daughter, and my wife, as well as it looked after me. As well as I hope it will always watch over me from the stars.

I can't even tell you how little I want to raise a rifle in anger again. I would much sooner let Breeny be and trust to diplomacy. But diplomacy doesn't always work. And where peace ends, the line --held by us redshirts-- will ever be held. For the Federation. For the Fleet. For the cause.

The cause has a name, you know. It's a Vulcan name, an Andorian name, a Caitian name, a Tellarite name, a Human name, a Benzite name. It's your name, and it's mine. And it's my daughter's name-- even though she won't hear it for another three months. That's why we fight. Because we believe in those names. And to not be able to hear just one of them again is a voice lost.

And I suppose I just wanted you to know that daddy's out there trying to make you proud, Kira. That's gonna be her name: Kira Nerys Dixon.

Now, Kira, I want you to listen close. Your old man might not be around much. I'm not sure what to tell you 'bout how this is going to end. But if I don't make it back, when the time comes, there's a couple things I need to have said to you. You be kind with your mother. Don't ever forget she's the strongest woman I've ever known, and the most beautiful. Take care of her. Be careful with love, be daring in life. Be the girl, become the woman, that your mother knows you're going to become. Make me proud. Honour our brave soldiers and officers in that Starfleet uniform, however it looks when you see it, red or not. And always remember: we did our best. We are going to do our best-- forever. For you.


End file.
